


The Pursuit of Unhappiness

by Ely_Baby



Series: The Blossom and the Dragon [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Infidelity, Oral Sex, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 12:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 14
Words: 201,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2025174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ely_Baby/pseuds/Ely_Baby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The lives and woes of Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson after the Second Wizarding War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Marriage of Convenience

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read by [QueenBtchoftheUniverse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBtchoftheUniverse).

***

Pansy Parkinson wrapped her black trench tightly around her body. At the end of May, the temperatures in London were still far from summery and, from time to time, her petite body still shivered in the cold air of dawn. It was six in the morning and Diagon Alley was completely deserted; the shops were still closed and not a sound could be heard except for Pansy’s shoes on the cold stones of the street. Occasionally, a cat crossed the path of the witch as she walked briskly towards the corner where Diagon Alley bent sharply into Knockturn Alley.

The air suddenly became even colder, and she had to stuff her hands in her pockets to warm them up. Knockturn Alley was just as empty as the other street. For once, there were no vendors who tried to grab Pansy’s wrists to get her attention, nor suspicious-looking wizards who accidentally bumped into her and got hold of either her money or her fleshy bits. In those occasions, she had hexed more than one individual and some of them had even hexed her back. She shook her head bitterly at the memory of her teeth turning pink by the hand of a young pickpocket.

Suddenly, a black owl flew past her head and landed on the window sill of 13B Knockturn Alley with a great fluttering of wings. She recognised the bird, a fiery, well-fed animal which had tried to snap its beak around her fingers more than once in the past.

Borgin and Burkes was still closed, and no light could be seen in the window above the shop. Pansy was grateful for that. It meant that she still had time before she heard Mr Borgin’s spiteful voice ordering her around, or felt his sweaty and smelly hands unexpectedly brushing against her before she could withdraw.

She stopped in front of the owl and the animal looked at her with contempt. Then, slowly, as if it did it only because its owner had told it to, the bird held out its claw to Pansy. There were two letters tied to it, and as she untied the complicated knot, the owl hooted impatiently at her. She shot it a glare, but the owl glared back at the witch. Pansy’s small fingers fumbled a little bit longer with the twine and when she finally managed to untie the post, the owl hooted once again and took off, sending feathers to flutter all around Pansy.

She glared at it as it disappeared behind the dark buildings of Knockturn Alley, her head already filling with recipes where the main ingredient was an owl. She rummaged through the pocket of her trench and took out a big, heavy and rusty key. She put it in the door lock of Borgin and Burkes and turned it. The door opened with a sinister creak. She walked into the dimly lit shop and closed the door at her back, locking it once again from the inside.

Pansy stepped as quietly as she could towards the counter. She unbuttoned her trench and went to the back to hang it on a rusty nail in the wall. She glanced at her reflection in a mirror and cringed. Her fair skin was even paler than usual, her hollow cheeks gave the impression that she was ill and her eyes seemed tired beyond recognition. Her hair, slightly longer than her usual pageboy haircut, was pulled up in a pony tail that highlighted her cheekbones. She didn’t like what she saw, but decided that it was better not to linger on such things as her appearance at that moment. With what Mr Borgin paid her, putting on some weight was out of the question and since she didn’t have prospects of a better career taking shape anytime soon, she preferred to gloss over her look instead of whining about it. She didn’t have to be beautiful for anybody anyway. Plus, all Mr Borgin asked of her was to be neatly dressed and to smile constantly when the clients came in.

She walked back to the counter and sat on one of the dusty stools. The letters lay in front of her: two identical envelopes, coming from the same place. Two very different writings on the envelopes though, from two very different people. One of the letters, the one addressed to Mr Borgin, was written in an elaborated and tidy calligraphy. The other one, for Miss Pansy Parkinson, had been scribbled down quickly, as if someone had wanted to add that letter to her as a second thought.

She took the letter addressed to her and slowly slid her finger under the seal flap, tearing the parchment open. There were two pieces of parchment in it. The first one was printed beautifully with green ink on a silvery parchment. It was a wedding reminder and it read:

_Mr and Mrs Hyperion Greengrass_

_Would like to remind you_

_The marriage of their daughter_

_ASTORIA_

_To the son of_

_Mr and Mrs Lucius Malfoy_

_DRACO_

_Saturday the twelfth of June_

_At four o’clock in the afternoon_

_At Malfoy Manor_

The other piece of parchment was much shorter. It was written in an untidy and slurred writing, as if the person who had written it were in a hurry.

> _Do come. – D._

That was all it said.

Pansy clutched her fingers around the smaller piece of parchment and clenched her jaw, her muscles tensing. What kind of family had to send two invitations and a reminder for a wedding? _That_ kind of family, naturally.

She slid her fingers over Draco’s words and felt a little bulge around the dash. When she brought the letter closer to her eyes and looked attentively at it, she saw that dash between the message and Draco’s initial had been written over something that he had been hastily erased.

She raised the letter and tried to look at the parchment through the light, but since the shop was darker than outside, she had to make some illumination by herself.

“ _Lumos_ ,” she murmured, and her wand shone brightly behind the parchment. She looked closely. ‘P’. A ‘P’ that had been quickly discarded. _Malfoys don’t beg_ , she reminded herself bitterly.

“Turn off that wicked light,” hissed a voice at her back. “Isn’t it bright enough in here?”

Pansy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The answer was no, but she didn’t want to start her day with the wrong foot. She pocketed her wand and the light wore off.

“You have post,” she informed him evenly.

Mr Borgin grabbed the letter that sported his name and tore it open. He had received the same wedding reminder that Pansy had, but there was no additional message for him. He grumbled something impossible to understand and glanced at Pansy’s letter. She closed her fist over Draco’s message when she felt the eyes of the old man lowering on her.

“So, we’ve both been invited to the wedding of the century apparently,” he spluttered. “The status of those pureblood families must have dropped a great deal to invite underprivileged people like us.”

Pansy lowered her eyes, feeling the rage boiling inside of her at his words, but there was no use in talking back to her boss, not if she wanted to keep her job. So she didn’t reply.

“I will have to think about letting you attend the wedding, though,” added Mr Borgin, folding the invitation back in the envelope. “I need someone to look after the shop.”

Pansy took a sharp breath. Probably that would not have been a bad thing. Did she want to attend Draco’s wedding? No, not really. She hadn’t seen him in ten months and she felt like seeing him getting married to Astoria would have been an unnecessary pain to inflict to herself. On the other hand, she was burning with the desire to see him once again. She had no business at Malfoy Manor and had never been invited there, but at the same time Draco had never come to visit her in Knockturn Alley. And Merlin! She was longing for a glimpse of his smug face and the gentle touch of his hands.

“Have you turned the sign?” asked Mr Borgin, sitting on the stool next to her.

“No,” admitted Pansy, collecting her letter and putting it back in the envelope.

“What are you waiting for, girl?” the old wizard questioned her. “Not everybody is a late sleeper such as yourself.”

Pansy had to bite her tongue. She was up before dawn every single day, just to be at the shop before Mr Borgin himself was awake. She stood up and pocketed the letter, next to her wand. She walked to the door, unlocked it and turned the sign that said ‘Closed’ to ‘Open’. Her eyes wandered through the misty window and she saw that the alley was still empty. Too early for the wizards who had nothing to hide, too late for those who did.

“Bring me the coins you bought yesterday,” Mr Borgin told her from the counter. “I still haven’t had time to check them out.”

Pansy nodded slightly, tearing her eyes away from the street. She made her way to a massive wardrobe and opened it. Inside there were tons of boxes and treasure chests, placed one above the other, and she took the one on the top of the pile. It was a crimson little box with an eagle and a snake engraved on the front. She brought it to the counter and placed it carefully in front of Mr Borgin.

“Good,” he grunted, his greasy hands patted hers before she could withdraw. “Now, give me my glasses and my gloves. Do I still have to tell you everything?”

His glasses and gloves were resting on the counter at a reaching distance from Mr Borgin, but Pansy pushed them towards him anyway. He opened the box and studied its content. A collection of golden coins with dragons engraved on one side and the head of some wizard on the other were piled on the velvety interior.

Theodore Nott, the wizard who had sold them to Pansy the day before, had said that he didn’t exactly know what they did, but that they were surely cursed. To prove that, he showed her his two fingers. He had tried to pick one up the day before and she could see his skin burned and blistering.

“You sit here and wait for the clients,” ordered Mr Borgin, patting the stool next to his. “They seem to like doing business with you.” He grabbed her chin without squeezing. “Remember to smile,” he added.

Pansy jerked away from his hand and nodded darkly. She liked dealing with the clients more than anything else. She always managed to get some really good deals out of them. And despite Mr Borgin’s constant nagging at her, she knew that he needed her there as much as she needed that job. Business had improved greatly ever since he had employed her and Pansy was aware of the fact that he knew it and that he somehow felt the power that she held over him. In reality, though, she didn’t hold that much power at all, because that position was her only steady income and she seemed unable to find another job despite her constant attempts to do so.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” mumbled Mr Borgin, looking at the coins closely. “Such art.”

Pansy knew he wasn’t talking about the engravings, but about the curse, but she didn’t comment. Luckily, the door opened and the first customer of the day came in. An old man who had something heavy under his robe as he walked briskly towards the counter.

Mr Borgin placed his gloved hand on the small of Pansy’s back and pushed her off the stool. “Smile,” he hissed, before going back to his coins.

And Pansy smiled, even though what she really wanted to do was to roll her eyes at him.

***

Draco walked into his study for the first time. It was a big and bright room that used to be one the guestrooms before his father had it converted. The work had taken a couple of days, but now there was a solid wood desk with a massive chair, two wide windows and bookshelves that covered most of the walls.

“I hope you like it,” murmured Lucius behind him. “As I told you, you need a study now that you are getting married.”

Draco made his eyes wander through the books. There weren’t many, yet. Some of his old school books and some other given to him as presents through the years, but it was up to him to build his own library.

“Yes,” replied Draco softly, “I needed a study.” He walked to the window and looked out. From that side of the Manor he could see the orchard and the rose garden. There had never been an orchard or roses at Malfoy Manor, but that was one of the many changes that Astoria had brought with her when she had visited in April.

He didn’t know if she had wanted the orchard and the rose garden to be in that particular position so that they would have been the only thing that he saw from his study or if it was just a coincidence. But she had insisted on that particular room for Draco’s study and it looked like she always obtained what she wanted with his parents. More than he did anyway.

Draco turned away from the window. He pushed the chair back and sat down, sinking in the soft filling. On the desk lay an endless roll of parchment that had the wedding guest list written tidily in alphabetical order. More than a thousand people had been invited, and almost all had already confirmed their presence. Relatives, friends, acquaintances, people that had to be invited, but that nobody really remembered who they were anymore. Draco had skimmed through the list lots and lots of times, always looking for the name that kept turning up missing.

Pansy. Pansy Parkinson. After the _save the date_ card. He had sent her two invitations and a reminder, and she had never replied to any of them. He was burning with impatience and, more than once, he had thought to grab the first valuable thing they had in the Manor and bring it to Borgin and Burkes just to see her. The desire to just at least catch a glimpse of her from the dusty window of the shop was burning intensely inside of him and lately Pansy’s body was the first thing that sprung to his mind late at night when his hand was the only companion he had to give himself relief.

He wanted to believe that she was thinking about him as well, maybe waiting for him, wondering why he wasn’t coming to visit her. But surely she couldn’t imagine that every single one of his moves were strictly controlled by his mother. He couldn’t Apparate nor travel to any place at all without her knowing. She had strictly interdicted any unnecessary travels to London and when he had to find a suitable dress suit for his wedding an expensive tailor had been called to come to the Manor to make a unique creation.

But all that was about to end. Once he was married and became the Lord of the house, he could have done as he pleased. And Draco knew what pleased him. He knew that his mother awaited his wedding day with a mix of excitement and fear. Excitement because no Malfoy had ever gotten out of a wedding; till death do us part was taken so seriously that many a Malfoy bride had died in mysterious circumstances, but none had ever been divorced. And fear because from that moment on she would have lost all control on her son, and she was not sure that Astoria would be up to the challenge.

“Has everybody sent their R.S.V.P.s?” asked Lucius from one of the two armchairs that rested in a corner of the room and that Draco hadn’t noticed before.

“Almost,” he replied tightly.

Lucius nodded thoughtfully, then he stood up. “I guess you will want to acquaint yourself with your study.” He caressed one of the shelves with an almost loving touch. “I will leave you to it.” And without adding a single word he walked out of Draco’s study, leaving him in there alone.

Draco didn’t know what he was supposed to do to acquaint himself with a room – maybe sniffing the curtains and fondling the desk? – so he decided rather to write to Pansy one more letter. He opened one of the drawers and smiled as he saw a pile of blank letters with just as many envelopes and a bottle of ink with a brand new feather. He took everything out and placed it on the desk. Carefully, he dunked the feather in the ink bottle and stopped in midair. What could he have written to her? If she hadn’t already decided to attend, there was nothing his brain could come up with that would have made her come to the wedding.

Ink started to drop down on the parchment and Draco swore under his breath. He put the feather back into the ink bottle and used the envelope to pad the stain, creating a bigger spot on both the letter and the envelope. Frustrated, he tore the parchment and threw it away.

“Writing to Astoria, I suppose,” remarked Narcissa icily.

Draco looked up to meet his mother’s eyes and from her face he knew that she knew perfectly well to whom he was writing. He didn’t reply.

“Your Father said that you were settling down into your new study,” she continued, walking in. “Is it to your liking?”

“Indeed,” replied Draco flatly. “I couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

Narcissa smiled coldly. “I’m glad,” she told him. “I just received a letter from Astoria and her parents.”

“Calling off the wedding?” asked Draco casually.

Narcissa ignored him. “They will be here the night before the wedding,” she informed her son. “There will be a rehearsal dinner with both of our families and they will sleep in the north wing of the Manor.”

“Isn’t it bad luck to see your bride the night before the wedding?” asked Draco coolly.

Narcissa’s cold, grey eyes looked to the window past him. “As long as you don’t spend the night together, you have nothing to worry about.” Her voice was like ice.

“Great,” murmured Draco without emotion.

Narcissa looked back at her son. “I am sure you won’t embarrass your name next week,” she stated, then stopped to think for a moment. “ _Our_ name,” she corrected herself.

Draco gritted his teeth. “I’m sure I won’t,” he hissed.

Narcissa smiled coldly, she turned on her heels and stopped. “And Draco,” she called after him, “consider it a blessing if Pansy Parkinson doesn’t show up.”

Draco swallowed hard as she exited his study. Oh, how much he wanted Pansy to come now, just to show his mother after that retort. And now he would never forgive Pansy if she didn’t.

***

“I don’t suppose you can raise your offer a bit,” grunted a tall wizard with a black beard and a tattoo under his left eye.

Pansy feigned a smile. “I don’t suppose you want to start our transaction from the beginning once again.”

The wizard looked darkly at the young witch. “You are quite good at your job, Miss Parkinson,” he whispered, placing a transparent box with a shrunken cat paw inside.

“You should let Mr Borgin hear you, Mr Higgs,” she told him as she counted the Galleons and the Sickles that she owed him.

“Should hear what?” asked Mr Borgin suspiciously, walking into the shop from the back room.

Mr Higgs looked at him, while Pansy lowered her eyes, pretending to be counting the money again even though she already had the exact sum in her hands.

“That your assistant knows what she is doing,” he told him. “She is a young, pretty thing with a brain, and she is worth marrying.” He looked at Mr Borgin and winked.

Mr Borgin looked at him without understanding, then, all of a sudden, he seemed to realise what the wizard was talking about. His features became hard as he looked coldly at Mr Higgs. “She doesn’t have time for these things,” he growled curtly. “Give him the money, girl,” he ordered to Pansy. “I’m sure Mr Higgs has other things to do.”

Pansy raised her head and gave the money to the customer. “Thank you for doing business with us today,” she said with no emotion and a plastic smile on her face.

Mr Higgs took the money and nodded darkly to Mr Borgin and to Pansy, before walking away with a loud screech from the door.

“Marrying,” Mr Borgin muttered, once his client was gone. “You have no time for such things, girl.” He looked at Pansy with fake gentleness, his slimy hand sliding on her cheek to make her look at him. “Don’t go around and get married; you and I make a good team, girl.”

Pansy pulled away from his hand and took a couple of steps back. She looked at him with severity. There was something she had to tell him and now, when he appeared to have softened, was probably a good time to break the news with him. “Mr Borgin, I’ve decided to go to the wedding this Saturday.”

Mr Borgin stiffened at her words. “And who’s going to look after the shop, girl?” he asked her coldly.

Pansy looked at him, her eyes burning. “We keep it closed for the day,” she told him sensibly. “I don’t think Mr Malfoy would be glad to know that you have kept me away from the wedding of his only son to look after your shop.” She had to suppress a smile when she looked at his troubled face. “I suppose he would think you rather impolite,” she continued, “and you don’t want Mr Malfoy to think that about you. They have always been such good clients.” She bit her bottom lip at that last sentence. Draco had not set foot in Borgin and Burkes in ages and Pansy had only seen Lucius Malfoy once since she had started working there. Still, they knew Mr Borgin well and had always brought a lot of interesting items to his shop.

Mr Borgin seemed to think hard at her words. She was right, she knew that and she also knew that he was well aware of her being right. He pushed his dyed, black hair away from his eyes and looked at her as if she had been very naughty. “No, I certainly wouldn’t want that,” he replied slowly. “I suppose you can go.” 

Pansy nodded, she bit her lip to hide a satisfied smile. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Yes, yes,” he grumbled, “but I’ll withhold the money from your salary.”

Pansy turned her back to him before she rolled her eyes. Now she had more important things to think about. Her dress for example, and how to style her hair in a fashionable way without going to the hairdresser.

And what to say to Draco when she saw him.

***

Draco had come to the conclusion that rehearsal dinners were the most unnecessary things that had ever been invented. Endless conversations about tedious matters such as flowers and table arrangements bored him to death and he didn’t wish to spend a minute longer than necessary seated at that dinner table.

To him, the arrival of his future wife and in-laws a day before the wedding had been a nuisance more than anything else. As this was their first time at Malfoy Manor, Mr and Mrs Greengrass had asked and obtained a visit to every single room of the house, with the great displeasure of Draco who had been chosen as their personal guide.

He replied as politely as he could to their incredibly dull questions about the kind of wood used for the desks and the significance of the symbols engraved on the doors. Draco knew very little about those things and he cared even less. All he wanted that day was to go to his study, sit down, take out a letter he had received from London that morning and tear it apart. He had recognised the writing and his heart had been beating furiously all day long. The anticipation of reading her message was making him numb towards his guests. But, as he was dragged from room to room and finally to the dining room, it looked like his desire to open the letter had to be kept unsatisfied for much longer than he would have liked it.

“I suppose you’re starting to get anxious about tomorrow, Draco,” chirped Mrs Greengrass as she was served a tiny portion of lobster with a delicate buttery sauce. “So many guests and you and Astoria being the centre of attention. It must be quite intimidating to think about it.” She smiled coldly as if she were enjoying making him fret. Little did she know that he felt no emotion at all concerning the following day. He couldn’t have cared less if he were on a desert island or in the middle of Diagon Alley on a Sunday afternoon, the only thing that mattered was the letter he kept clutching and what was written on it.

“No,” replied Draco, biting his lobster and chewing slowly on it. “Not in the least.”

Mrs Greengrass smiled, her eyes studying him coolly, probably deciding if he was joking or if he was just hiding his true feelings. Draco’s face was a mask, as he looked stubbornly away from his future mother-in-law.

“Draco,” Daphne called him, flashing her white teeth in a captivating smile from the other side of the table, “have you invited any of our fellow schoolmates?”

Draco looked at her. She was just as cute as her sister, and even if she sported a round belly that let everybody know that she was in the last trimester of her first pregnancy, she hadn’t changed much from Hogwarts. “Of course,” he replied rather curtly, “there are more than a thousand guests.”

Daphne didn’t seem to mind his tone. “Zabini?” she asked thoughtfully.

“Is this a man or a woman?” asked her husband distractedly.

“A man,” replied Draco. “And yes, he is my best man.”

“Millie? Oh, please tell me you’ve invited Millie,” she piped. “She is so funny…” 

Draco swallowed another bite of his lobster. He had never particularly liked Millicent Bulstrode, but it just didn’t feel right not to invite her. She had been friends with Pansy back at school and… he didn’t know. Probably he had hoped she would convince Pansy to come. “Millicent, Tracey, Goyle,” Draco assured her. “You can have your school reunion while we pose for pictures.”

Daphne played a little with the food in her plate. “And Pansy? Have you invited Pansy?”

Draco stiffened. He could feel Astoria and Narcissa’s stares as he took time to reply. Why did Daphne have to be so chatty? With great displeasure, his mother answered in his place.

“We’ve sent her an invitation, Daphne,” Narcissa informed her, “but I’m afraid she hasn’t replied.”

“How rude!” exclaimed Mrs Greengrass with a bit more drama then necessary, probably Astoria had informed her of Draco’s time with Pansy the last time she had visited.

“I’m sure she has her good reasons,” chirped Daphne thoughtfully, “she just adored you in school, Draco.”

Draco closed his eyes. If he could have thrown his lobster into Daphne’s face he would have done so. He didn’t quite understand if his former classmate’s feelings were genuine or if she had been made aware of the whole story as well and just wanted to cause trouble. He suspected the latter.

“What is she doing now?” continued Daphne, unabashed.

“Working as a shop assistant at Borgin and Burkes,” Astoria chimed in, her voice cheerful as she informed everybody that Pansy was at the base of the food chain, ready to be devoured by any other organism.

Daphne smiled. “See? She must have been busy, that’s why she hasn’t written,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Yes,” conceded Narcissa, “but she was still incredibly rude.”

Mrs Greengrass and her husband nodded in agreement while Lucius just cleaned his mouth on his napkin and downed a big gulp of champagne. 

Astoria and Daphne exchanged a quick smile and Draco knew that they were all taking extreme pleasure in being nasty to Pansy. He felt rage burning inside of him and he could feel his ears becoming hotter. He put his hand in his pocket and closed his fingers tightly around the letter he had been keeping there. His other hand going to his glass. He needed to drink.

“Is it true that her parents disinherited her?” asked Daphne after she had swallowed another piece of lobster.

“They didn’t have much anyway,” replied Astoria mischievously.

Draco put down his glass with force, his cutlery clinking on his plate as he did so. Everybody turned to look at him. “She wrote today,” he hissed, taking out the letter from his pocket. “Arrived this morning with the post.”

Narcissa seemed to become even paler than usual, her face became harder and she arranged her fork and knife together on her plate. “And?” she asked coldly. “Is she coming?”

Draco took a sharp breath. “I haven’t had the time to open it yet,” he admitted curtly, the letter clutched in his hands.

He stayed still for a long moment with everybody’s stares on him. He didn’t want to open the letter there, but now that he had showed it to everybody he couldn’t have possibly put it back without reading it. As he tried to focus on a solution that would have made everybody happy he felt the envelope being snatched from his hands.

“I can’t see the problem,” insisted Astoria, tearing the letter open in front of everybody.

“No!” shouted Draco, leaning forward to take the letter back from her hands.

She raised it before he could reach it though and unfolded it. “Oh,” she murmured, disappointed. Draco stared at her, holding his breath. “She is coming,” she finally announced, folding the letter and giving it back to him.

Draco seized it from her hands and opened it. He too was disappointed. He had expected a longer message, but all she had to tell him was, _Okay. – P._ He stared at it for a long moment, forgetting his guests, forgetting Astoria and forgetting his parents. Slowly his disappointment left space to a strange excitement in his guts. She was coming. She didn’t need to send him any message. He would be seeing her the following day. Now, he was getting anxious.

From that moment on, dinner seemed to proceed particularly slowly and in a complete haze for Draco. He wasn’t aware of most things and ignored a lot of the conversations, he was unsure of the taste of the food he was eating. It was only when everybody stood up to move to the drawing room that he seemed to become once again aware of his surroundings.

He stood up as well and when most of the people had moved to the other room he grabbed Astoria’s arm and held her back. She whined quietly under his grip.

“Don’t you dare read my correspondence again,” he hissed to her, his face only inches from hers. He squeezed her arm to stress his words and she suffocated a moan. “Do you understand me?”

Astoria’s eyes burned with anger. She didn’t move, she didn’t reply and it was only when Draco let her go that she massaged her arm where it hurt her and turned on her heels, reaching the others on the couches. She sat gracefully down and smiled to her sister as if nothing had happened.

Draco looked darkly at her from the other room. He squeezed the letter in his hand again and took a few steps towards the drawing room. He stopped almost immediately, convincing himself that nobody would miss him, he turned and went towards the door that brought him to the hallway. It was enough for that night. He needed to sleep before he hexed someone.

***

Pansy felt the familiar tug of Apparition grabbing her from the inside out. Her shabby flat in Diagon Alley disappeared before her eyes and she found herself at the arrival point that had been set up especially for the wedding. It was just a corner of the garden, near an ancient oak tree that Pansy remembered fairly well. They had set up a white tent where people could all arrive in safety. Those who arrived by broom had a place to leave it and those who arrived using Apparition knew that they wouldn’t have bumped into anybody in there. Before exiting the tent, there were a few mirrors lined up for the guests to check their appearance after the travel and Pansy gladly stood in front of one of them and smoothed her dress.

She didn’t look as bad as she had expected. The dress that she had found at Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions was just perfect. It made her breasts look fuller and her whole figure taller. It was an emerald Empire style dress that reached her ankles. It twisted on her breasts, in a bow-like fashion, and from her bust down it loosely fitted her thin figure. It had no straps, so her pale, bony shoulders were the first thing that people would have noticed, but she could live with that. Her silvery shoes matched the silver, pansy-shaped pin that she had used to gather up part of her hair. Her black locks had been curled with attention and great difficulty, and to her they seemed to look good. She didn’t know if they would keep the shape that she had given them for the whole day, though. Her makeup was light, but her lips were the colour of blood and made her mouth look fleshier. She swallowed and walked out of the tent.

“Champagne?” squeaked a house-elf as soon as she set her foot into the garden. He raised a tray with a dozen flutes of champagne and she took one.

As she sipped from the glass, she looked around herself. The Manor and its grounds were bustling with life like Pansy had never seen them. House-elves and people were running about, putting up the latest decorations and attending to the guests who had already arrived.

The stage where the wedding would be taking place stood between a rose garden and an orchard which Pansy had never seen before and in front of a thousand white wood chairs. Flowers covered every inch of the ground and drapes and ribbons decorated the chairs and the stage. The decorations didn’t look like something that Draco would have chosen for his wedding day, but they probably fitted Astoria’s personality. She had surely been the one choosing the embellishments that day.

“Pansy!” someone called her from amongst a crowd of people. She turned slowly, not quite so ready to face a reunion with some of her old schoolmates who had surely turned out to have more successful lives than herself.

“Millie,” she let out as the square built witch hugged her, crushing her body in her arms.

“Look at you,” drawled Millicent, taking a step back and studying her long lost friend. “You look so… small.”

Pansy freed herself from the other witch, an annoyed smile on her face. “And you look so big,” she replied coldly.

Millicent patted her stomach, well visible under her tight dress. “I’m pregnant!” she exclaimed loudly. “Or I think I am…” she added after a moment. “My belly keeps getting bigger and bigger.”

“Then you’ve been pregnant for the past eight years,” snorted a smug voice at Pansy’s right.

She turned towards the owner of the voice, a tall, slim, dark-skinned boy with a smug smile on his slips. He winked at her. “Hello Parkinson,” he addressed her in a low, sensual voice that usually had all the girls swooning for him.

“Hello to you too, Zabini,” she replied, smirking.

“Bulstrode,” he added flatly towards Millicent, glancing quickly at her. 

Millicent flushed. “Zabini,” she replied in a whisper. “I think I haven’t got my flute of champagne yet. I’ll see you later, Pansy, yes?” she added. “We are probably at the same table, anyway.” She started towards the stage, then seemed to remember that she wanted some champagne and turned on her heels towards the house-elves.

“Well, what was that all about?” asked Pansy, eyeing Blaise suspiciously.

Blaise snorted. “A mix of too much Firewhiskey and an extremely cold night,” he replied, grimacing. “I’d rather not talk about it though. Not one of my highest points.” He eyed his friend and furrowed his brow. “Do you look thinner than usual or is it because I’ve just seen you standing next to Millicent?”

Pansy took a sharp breath. “I’m sure it’s an optical effect,” she replied, not too keen on admitting that she didn’t have enough money to eat regularly, especially when most of her funds had been used for the dress she was wearing. “Everyone would look petite next to Millie.”

Blaise chuckled. “I guess so.” He grabbed a flute from a passing house-elf and downed it in one gulp. “So, what’s your part in the wedding?”

Pansy looked puzzled at him. “I’m a guest,” she replied slowly, “what is your part in the wedding?”

“I’m Draco’s best-man,” he let her know, showing off his expensive dress suit. “Just a guest? Are you sure?” He looked smugly at her as if he knew something that she didn’t.

Pansy nodded. “Yes,” she replied slowly, “just a guest.” She looked at him expectantly, as if he owed her some kind of explanation. “Why?”

Another house-elf zoomed through their legs and Blaise grabbed Pansy’s half-empty glass and put it on the tray with his own.

“Hey…” she started to complain, but her protestations were cut short by his hand on her wrists and the feeling of being pulled into an Apparition alongside with her friend.

When she managed to put her feet back on the ground she had to steady herself against his chest not to fall. She opened her eyes and found out that they were standing in one of the many guest rooms of the Manor. He let her go and walked towards the door that led to the hallway, he opened it a little and peered out.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked irritated by the sudden Apparition. “You couldn’t have warned me that you were Apparating?” The fact that they had just managed to Apparate inside the Manor didn’t surprise her, probably they had taken away the anti-Apparition jinxes to leave the guests free to use the bathrooms whenever they needed.

He turned towards her and brought a slender finger to his full lips, reducing her to silence as a group of people walked past the door.

“Blaise?” she called him with irritation once their voices had died out in the corridor.

Blaise turned to look at her, he took a couple of steps and came to stand in front of her. “Listen,” he murmured seriously, “I’m just his best-man.” He pulled a curl of her hair away from her eyes. “I don’t know what he wants from you, but he asked me to bring you to him if I saw you before the ceremony.”

Pansy was taken aback by the sudden revelation. She had not expected Draco to want to make any sort of personal contact with her. Maybe she had hoped for him to look her way and walk towards her at some point of the day, but she hadn’t thought he would want her to be brought to him. She fretted, she hadn’t thought of what to tell him, and as her brain was trying to work out something intelligent enough, her heart started to beat furiously in her chest.

She raised her eyes to look at Blaise and saw that the young man was looking attentively at her. His eyes scrutinising every reaction on her face.

“So…” he started arrogantly, “just a guest?”

Pansy glared at him. “Yes,” she replied coldly. “I don’t know what he wants.”

“Well, one of us is going to find it out soon enough,” he replied matter-of-factly. He gestured for her to follow him and, unnecessarily, guided her through the corridors of the Manor. Pansy knew the place like the back of her hand, but she didn’t need Blaise to know that.

The tall boy came to a stop when they reached what Pansy recognised as Draco’s door. Blaise winked at her and knocked on the door with a firm hand.

“Stay the hell out,” came Draco’s irritated voice, “I’m not ready yet.”

Blaise snorted and pushed the door open just enough to let him inside. Pansy heard Draco’s complaints die in his throat as he saw his best-man.

“You should be ready, Malfoy,” he nagged him in a fake stern voice, “you are getting married in an hour.”

“Shut up, Zabini,” hissed Draco. “Or I’ll hex you like I’ve hexed Nott twenty minutes ago.”

Blaise raised his hands over his head, Pansy could see his movements from the hallway. “I come in peace,” he smirked, “I brought you an early wedding present.”

Draco went quiet all of a sudden as Blaise opened the door wide and let Pansy into the room. He was standing between his bed and a full length mirror, his dress suit lay tidily on his bed. He was still in his underwear and seemed to have been caught struggling with his bow tie the moment Blaise had opened the door.

He didn’t move. His breath seemed caught in his throat, since Pansy couldn’t hear him exhale. She took a step forward and walked into the room. Some more voices could be heard from down the hallway and Draco glanced hurriedly at Blaise, who seemed to understand and closed and locked the door.

“Hey,” Draco finally greeted her, his big, grey eyes looking into hers.

Pansy tried to smile, but she felt like she couldn’t control the muscles of her face. “Hey,” she replied, her voice hoarse.

When it was clear that there would not be another exchange for quite a while, Blaise snorted out loud. “Well, this is not awkward at all,” he chuckled, leisurely sitting on the bed. Draco glared at him. “What?” asked Blaise, then he sighed and waved his hand. “Alright, alright.” And he Disapparated.

Pansy felt her heartbeat deafening her ears as she stood alone with Draco in his room. She couldn’t quite feel her fingertips and all her skin seemed to have become extremely sensitive to the breeze that was coming from the open window. She didn’t quite know how long they stood there, but it seemed an eternity to her. Finally, she couldn’t take the silence anymore and took a step towards him.

“Do you need help with that?” she asked, her voice coming out much more fragile than she had expected.

Draco looked down at his bow tie, still untied around his neck. “Yes,” he mumbled softly, “I guess so…”

She walked to where he was standing and stopped in front of him. Her small, manicured fingers went to his tie and she started to knot it with slow and secure movements. It took her only a few seconds to fasten a perfect bow and when she finished she smoothed Draco’s shirt on his shoulders. She raised her eyes to look at him, expecting to see him checking out her work in the mirror. She felt her heart skip a beat when she found his eyes were still locked on her, a confused expression on his face.

Then it happened so quickly, she didn’t even have time to react. He lowered his head and kissed her fervently, his hands finding their way to her arms. She opened her mouth and replied quickly to his kiss. She closed her eyes, her hands curling on his chest. He sucked on her tongue and let it go, licking the inside of her mouth with his own.

His hands slid down her sides and came to rest on her hips, he traced her hipbones through the fabric and she sucked in her breath. One of his hands circled her body, worming its way to her left buttock, he squeezed while with the other one he started to pull her dress up her leg.

Pansy withdrew, her hand going to his wrist as she tried to keep him from inching her dress up any more. “No,” she let out in a strangled voice.

Draco looked at her. His pupils black with lust. “What?” he growled, pulling Pansy towards him.

Pansy put her hand on his chest. “You are getting married in an hour,” she reminded him, her eyes huge.

“I need less than an hour with you,” he informed her, licking his lips.

Pansy looked away. She knew it, and she wanted him so much. Why did she stop him then? She just couldn’t do it. Not on the day of his wedding to someone else. She didn’t like it. “I waited for you,” she whispered, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice. “You never came.”

Draco let her go and collapsed on the bed, carelessly sitting on the trousers he was supposed to wear that day. “I couldn’t,” he told her, “I think people in Azkaban have more freedom than I do.”

Pansy smirked. “It’s hard being the only heir to an immense fortune,” she mocked him, “poor Draco.”

Draco looked up at her with a glare, but when his eyes caressed her figure he didn’t reply anything.

“So, the day has finally arrived,” she continued, “the happiest day of your life. The wedding of the century.” She pretended to think. “Wasn’t there an article on Witch Weekly about you?”

Draco snorted. “The Daily Prophet and it was a short article.” He looked at her in the eyes. “Why did you come?” he asked her. He had asked it so many times the last time she had been at Malfoy Manor.

Pansy looked a bit confused to him. “You sent me an invite,” she reminded him.

Draco shook his head. “No, I know. I just figured you weren’t coming.”

“Why?”

“You never replied until yesterday,” Draco pointed out.

Pansy shrugged one of her bony shoulders. “I wasn’t sure Mr Borgin would have let me have the day off.” She was lying, she knew perfectly well how to obtain a day off from Mr Borgin. Her work at the shop was too valuable for him to forbid her a day off when she wanted one. The only glitch was that he withheld money from her salary like he was doing that day.

Draco snorted. “Mr Borgin,” he repeated, “is he treating you well?”

Pansy raised her eyebrows. “As well as he can,” she replied, her voice getting colder as she spoke of her boss, “he needs me, which gives me a little advantage.”

“Why did you come?” he asked again, obviously not believing her first answer.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “I came for you, Draco,” she replied irritated, “is that what you wanted to hear?”

Draco looked at her, his face grave. “Only if it’s the truth.”

Pansy bit her bottom lip. “Well,” she scoffed, “do your Arithmancy, won’t you? I certainly didn’t come here to see Astoria or your mother, now did I?” She smirked softly. “But maybe I came for the food after all.”

Draco grunted something, but Pansy couldn’t understand it. Then he stretched a hand towards her and she placed her palm against his. He curled his fingers around her tiny hand and pulled her to him, making her fall onto his lap.

“You are so small,” he breathed against the hollow between her neck and her shoulder. His arms hugged her tightly.

She shifted on his legs, trying to keep her curls from getting ruined against his face. “I’ve always been small,” she murmured, irritated at how her size was already cause of constant comments.

She felt his hands on her hip, once again he tried to inch her dress up her legs and somehow this time she didn’t feel like stopping him. She felt the material caressing her legs until his hands were resting on the warm skin of her thigh. He looked at her as if to ask for permission and she raised her head to plant a kiss on his lips. He raised her from his lap and made her turn, guiding her down to straddle his legs once again and facing him this time, her knees on the bed, pushing against his sides. She could feel her groin brushing against his member. She ground her hips onto his and he let out a strangled moan.

“I missed you,” he murmured, when she withdrew a little.

She circled his neck with her arms and smiled. “I know,” she breathed as she kissed him.

She felt his hand on her knickers as he moved them aside. He rubbed his finger gently but urgently against her clit before he removed his hands from her body and started to fumble at his underwear, freeing his erection.

She raised her hips, her dress bobbed around her waist, and prepared to lower herself on Draco. He looked at her and she looked back, one of his hands on his erection, the other on her waist, she started to slowly inch down on him.

She had just started to feel the head of his erection slipping through her folds when someone knocked forcefully on the door.

“Draco,” called Narcissa, “are you ready?”

Draco’s eyes darted to the clock and when he looked back at Pansy he looked irritated and worried.

“I should go,” whispered Pansy, her legs hurting as she strained her muscles to keep herself up.

Draco clenched his jaw. “No,” he told her resolutely. He grabbed her waist and pushed her down while he thrust up to meet her. He penetrated her in one swift motion and she had to bite down on her lip to stifle a cry of pain. She was not nearly wet enough yet and she had always been too small for Draco.

“Draco?” Narcissa called again, trying to open the door.

He hugged her tightly and started to pound into her furiously. She threw her head back and gritted her teeth, trying to swallow her cries of pain mixed with pleasure. Her hands went on his shoulders and she grabbed him tightly. She felt her orgasm building up quickly, almost as if Narcissa’s presence on the other side of the door hurried her on. She bit her lips forcefully and contracted around him as he drove frantically into her. She came and her muscles quivered. Then, suddenly, he slowed down and with a couple of deep and unhurried shoves he came into her. One of Pansy’s hands had to worm its way onto his mouth and stifle his loud moans.

They had to come down from their orgasms quickly. Draco’s breath was ragged as he leaned his head against Pansy’s raising breasts.

“Draco? Open this door,” ordered Narcissa, pounding on the wood.

Draco squeezed Pansy’s body against his own and she brought her mouth to his ear. “She knows how to unlock a door,” she reminded him.

He nodded and when she moved back, he captured her lips in another long kiss. She kissed him back, then got off his lap, put the knickers back in place and let the dress fall down to cover her legs. He tucked his flaccid member back into his underwear.

“ _Alohomora_!” hissed Narcissa from the other side of the door.

The door started to open and Draco glanced at Pansy; his worried eyes were the last thing she saw before she Disapparated from his room.

***

The ceremony dragged on forever. Vows. Rings. Magical binding. Flowers from the sky. Fireworks. Floating lanterns. A beautiful bride in an expensive dress covered in pearls and real flowers. A bored-looking groom who kept looking at his wife-to-be with narrowed eyes.

Before the wedding had started, Pansy had sat down in one of the last rows of chairs, and fanned herself with her hand, her cheeks and insides were still burning with her recent orgasm. Then a house-elf had run to her and informed the witch that the chairs were numbered and that she had number 43, which meant that she was in the second row.

From there, the view on the stage was perfect and she could painfully follow every step of the ritual that joined in wedlock the man with whom she had just had sex to a girl she could very easily admit she detested. Narcissa was sitting a row ahead of her and a couple of chairs down and she never missed the opportunity to turn her head and look at her with a cruel smile every time Draco had to kiss Astoria or put a ring on her finger.

After almost two hours of torture, Pansy was grateful it was finally over and now she was just excited at the thought of all the food that awaited her. The banquet would take place under a tent in the middle of the grounds. Malfoy Manor was of a respectable size, but it couldn’t possibly fit more than a couple hundred guests, and those attending the wedding were five times that number.

Pansy walked into the tent and found herself inside a richly decorated castle covered in white and gold. Probably Narcissa’s doing to style her son’s wedding banquet hall that way, because nothing said power like the splendour of a palace. At the entrance of the tent, there was a chart that showed the table disposition. Astoria and Draco were sitting in the middle of a long table, her parents at her right, and his parents at his left. Daphne and her husband were sitting next to her parents and Blaise was near Lucius.

She started looking for her name in the intricate labyrinth of surnames when someone called her from the other side of the hall. “Pansy!” cried Millicent at the top of her lungs.

Pansy turned to look at her and the witch waved her plump hand into the air. “Pansy, this way!”

Pansy sighed. How much she didn’t want to sit amongst her former classmates and listen to hours and hours of how wonderful their lives had been in the past few months! She wondered if she could maybe grab some food and Disapparate home, after all with a thousand guests who would have noticed her absence?

At least one person, she knew it because that person was already waving at her.

She made her way to where Millicent was sitting, her high heeled shoes scraping on the floor as she dragged her feet without much will.

“Told you we would be at the same table,” chirped Millicent, raising Pansy’s place card to show her that she wasn’t lying.

“Great,” mumbled Pansy sitting next her friend. The table was not too big and there were only three more places. Pansy had a look at the names on the place cards and sighed. Tracey Davies, Gregory Goyle and Theodore Nott, all of her fellow Slytherins. She swapped Goyle’s and Nott’s cards to make Theodore sit next to her. At least she already knew everything there was to know about Theodore, since she saw him at the shop from time to time.

“You owe me one, Parkinson,” announced Theodore, slumping down on the chair next to her. “I just talked to your boss.”

Pansy raised her eyebrows. Mr Borgin, she had completely forgotten about him and she was happy that way. Now that Theodore had reminded her about him, she hoped that she wouldn’t bump into him.

“Why?” she asked flatly.

Theodore checked the other names on the table and Pansy suppressed a giggle when she saw that he was swapping the place cards again, putting Tracey next to him and Goyle between her and Millicent. “He was complaining with some wizard,” he replied nonchalantly, “about the fact that he was old and had no heir and didn’t know who to leave his fortune in case he died.”

Pansy’s eyes became two slits. “And?” she asked coldly.

“And I reminded him that he had a young and beautiful shop assistant,” he chuckled, winking at her, “and that he should take advantage of the situation.”

If a glare could kill, Theodore would have already been dead. “Excuse me?” she asked icily.

Millicent giggled. “Theodore is trying to be a matchmaker.”

Theodore looked at the plump witch with a puzzled expression. “What are you talking about?” he questioned her without understanding.

“You just suggested to him to marry Pansy,” she giggled a bit more.

Theodore looked from Millicent to Pansy, his mouth half open for the surprise that he seemed to feel at Millicent’s revelation. “No, I didn’t,” he finally growled, “I meant that he should make you his heir and leave you the shop in his will.”

Pansy crossed her arms on her chest, her head cocking as she looked at him. “Did you tell him that?” she asked.

Theodore scratched his neck. “No,” he admitted, “I thought that was clear.”

Pansy took a deep breath. “Well then, if he proposes, I know who to hex,” she let him know calmly. Luckily, she was sure he would never propose to her. After two wives, he had more than once expressed his desire to spend the rest of his life alone. And even though his wandering hands had ended on her buttocks more than once, she was somehow convinced that he didn’t find her a suitable wife. And if he proposed she would say ‘no’, she was a free witch after all.

“Pansy and Borgin sitting on a tree…” chanted Millicent at her left.

Pansy turned to glare at her. This was going to be a long, long banquet and when Goyle and Tracey joined them she knew that it would be extremely hard to endure.

It became even more of a torture when Draco and Astoria walked in the tent and everybody cheered the newlyweds. They seemed unable to take a step before people were chanting, “Kiss, kiss, kiss!” all around them. They kissed at least ten times – Pansy counted them – between the entrance and their table, and every time it was fast and business-like. When they reached Pansy’s table, though, Astoria stopped and pulled Draco into a longer kiss, opening her lips to welcome his tongue. Draco kissed her back, but without parting his lips and leaving Astoria a bit flustered.

Luckily for Pansy, her mind was taken away from all of that when food started to appear on their plates. She hadn’t had so much to eat in months, probably since her last time at the Manor, and she just didn’t seem able to get enough of these exotic tastes. She wasn’t racing anybody, but she always finished first, even before Goyle and Millicent.

“So small and she eats so much,” sighed Tracey with envy in her voice.

Pansy didn’t reply, better for her to think that she had a fast metabolism rather to let her know that she was starving.

She caught a glimpse of Draco every now and then, and she found him staring at her twice, but sitting as he was between his mother and his wife – how that word hurt Pansy! – he couldn’t do much except steal a glance every now and then.

When the banquet was over and the house-elves made the tables disappear to make room for a dance floor, Pansy decided that it was time for her to go home. She knew the party would go on for the whole night and she had an early morning the day after. She disappeared amongst the crowd before Blaise could make his way to her and reclaim her to the dance floor. She walked alone to the Apparition point, turning every now and then to see if anybody was following her. She shook her head and called herself stupid when the realisation that nobody was coming hit her. She glanced one last time to the tent and Disapparated home.

***

Draco’s eyes were wandering through the crowd when the music stopped. The wedding was over and now most of the people were leaving the tent, drunk and wobbly on their legs. House-elves had to transport some of the wizards and witches that had passed out to the Apparition point and had to shake them awake and dunk them when some of them threw up.

Draco was standing near the high table where he had been served the banquet. He was looking for a certain black-haired witch, but she wasn’t anywhere to be found.

A muscular, dark-skinned arm circled his neck and Draco’s head was pulled against Blaise’s head. His breath, just like Draco’s, smelled of alcohol. “Looking for someone?” he asked, his words a little bit slurred.

Draco disentangled himself from his best-man. “No,” he lied, “just delighting in the sight of this crowd that came to pay their homage to me.”

Blaise chuckled. “Liar,” he snorted. “Hey, Malfoy,” he added, his voice low as he looked around them with circumspection and gestured to him to come closer. “Do you know what to do now?” he whispered.

“What?” asked Draco without really understanding what he was talking about.

“Yes,” continued Blaise seriously, “do you know where to stick your family jewels tonight or you need a drawing?”

Draco shook his head and pushed Blaise off of him. “I know,” he smirked.

Blaise laughed loudly. “Of course you do,” he drawled out loud, “your lady friend was very flushed when she Apparated out of your bedroom.”

Despite being slightly drunk, Draco was quick as he grabbed the front of Blaise’s dress suit. “Shut up,” he hissed, looking around himself. Luckily nobody seemed to have heard him. “Forget what you saw, Zabini, or I’ll make you forget.” Draco wasn’t afraid of the consequences of his actions. Not for himself at least. He dreaded what his family could have done to Pansy though.

His father had had countless of affairs ever since he had married his mother – even though Draco was afraid he had him beat by having sex with another woman on his wedding day – but Narcissa had never been as passionate as she was with Draco and Pansy in destroying Lucius’ extra-conjugal relationships. A couple of times, though, they had found the lifeless body of one of his father’s lovers in some dodgy side street of Knockturn Alley. He wanted to spare Pansy the same destiny, even though he knew that she could take care of herself, he was still unsure of what lengths Astoria would go to assure himself to her and only her.

“Sorry,” mumbled Blaise, taken aback.

Draco let him go and shook his head. “It’s okay,” he hissed.

“You two look awfully close,” joked Astoria, walking gracefully to stand between the two of them. “Should I be jealous?”

Draco looked at her and couldn’t help but feeling a surge of hatred and resentment towards the young witch that had managed to tie him down to herself.

“No, no,” assured Blaise, faking to fear Astoria, “it’s all yours.” He winked to the bride and gave a thumbs-up to his friend, before Disapparating away.

Astoria turned to look at Draco. “It’s late,” she murmured sweetly. “Aren’t you tired?”

He was tired, but didn’t particularly care to admit it to her. This was their first night of marriage and he knew his duties as a husband well enough. Astoria would be the second girl with whom he had ever had sex. He knew Pansy like the back of his hand, what she liked and where she liked to be touched and he just felt lazy at the thought of having to start all over.

He shook his head, he didn’t have to start all over, he didn’t care for Astoria, he didn’t have to give her pleasure, and he didn’t _want_ to give her pleasure.

Draco looked at her, his eyes cold. “Do you want to go to bed?” he asked her flatly.

Astoria’s lips curled into a smile. “Very much,” she admitted in a whisper.

Draco obliged. He grabbed her wrist and she placed her hands on his chest. He Disapparated, taking Astoria along with him. He could feel her fingers curling against him as they Apparated gracefully in Draco’s bedroom.

Astoria giggled, her eyes rising to look at Draco. “Wrong bedroom,” she giggled sweetly.

Draco stared at his bed for a long moment. There was still a dent on the bedspread where he had sat with Pansy on top of him. He was glad that he and Astoria would have their own bedroom because too many memories were imprinted on that mattress.

“Let’s go,” whispered Astoria, leading the way. She opened the door and walked down the hallway. Their new room, the one that she had so carefully chosen was only a few doors down from his parents’ and it was probably one of the biggest bedrooms of the house.

Draco had been in there only a few other times before but he couldn’t remember it being the way it looked now, after Astoria had had her way with the pieces of furniture. Crimson was the main colour. Crimson were the curtains, crimson the bedspread and the many cushions, crimson the wallpaper on the ancient chest of drawers near her vanity table. There were four doors that opened in that bedroom. One on the hallway, one on a small, private sitting room, one on a walk-in closet and another door that led to an en-suite bathroom with travertine walls and silver details.

Astoria locked the door at Draco’s back and came to stand in front of him. She stretched her arms around his neck and stood on tiptoes to kiss him. He placed his hands on her waist, but didn’t respond to the kiss, letting her inexperienced lips try tentatively to entice a response from him.

She stepped back, apparently unfazed by his lack of reaction. She smiled and sat down. Her long and voluminous wedding dress covering most of the king size bed. She put her hands in her lap and fidgeted nervously, something Draco had never seen her do before.

He didn’t say anything, but started to loosen up his tie.

She looked up at him, her eyes slightly troubled. “Draco, I’ve…” Her words trailed away as she lowered her eyes again.

“You’ve never done it before?” asked Draco, his voice cold.

Astoria shook her head softly and Draco smirked. He stretched a hand towards her and she looked up at him, a tiny smile on her face as she took his hand. He helped her on her feet.

“You need to lose the dress, first,” he instructed her, reaching behind her and starting to undo the long line of little buttons. She shuddered when he reached the small of her back, and when the last button was undone he made his hands slide slowly on her shoulders and down her arms, taking the dress off her body.

She stood in front of him wearing a white corset, lacy knickers and suspenders. She was a delightful sight and her soft curves would have affected any healthy man. Draco didn’t have to question his health, he felt something stirring inside of him as he stared at his wife. She was inviting, and the knowledge that she was a virgin was just too much for him. The only time he had taken a virgin girl, he had been a virgin too and he hadn’t really know what he was doing. Now, he did just too well.

“Strip naked,” he commanded her, his voice hard.

She squealed under his stern look, but her hands went to her corset and she fumbled around the lace that closed it on the front. It didn’t take her long before her breasts appeared from the tight piece of underwear. She opened it and made it slip on the floor, on top of the wedding dress that lay at her feet. Her suspenders were next and finally she brought her hands to her knickers and hooked her fingers in the elastic hem, she raised a foot and then the other to make them slide down her legs and off of her. She stood in front of Draco, completely naked, shivering under his stare.

“Get on the bed,” he ordered.

She swallowed, her flawless throat moving sensually. She sat on the bed and looked at him.

“Lie down.”

Astoria pushed herself on her hands and slid on the bed until her head was resting on the decorative cushions. She brought a hand to her breast and touched her nipple with a slender finger, her other hand travelling south towards her folds.

“Don’t,” Draco warned her, his eyes on her hand as he undressed. He took off his tie and jacket and let them fall on top of her dress. When his shirt reached the pile of discarded clothes, he kicked them towards a corner of the room. He undid his trousers and took them off, his shoes falling on the floor with a thump when he pushed them off his feet. When he took off his underwear, he heard Astoria gasping slightly. He looked up at her and saw that her eyes were staring at his erection.

He smirked, his hand going to his member. He stroked its length a couple of times before stepping towards the bed. He knelt on the bedspread and Astoria, instinctively closed her legs.

Without a word, he pushed her thighs apart with his hands and settled between them. He came to rest on top her, his erection pushing against her inner thigh.

He lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered, “This is going to hurt,” before grabbing his erection and guiding it into her.

He could feel her body writhing under his own as he inched inside of her. She was still dry and he found himself hurting against her walls as he pushed in. Her hands went to his back, and he could feel one of her nails puncturing through his skin.

She screamed when he finally took away her virginity. He stopped then and looked down at her. Her eyes were scrunched up, her cheeks were flushed and her lips parted, all her body was tense and she was shaking slightly.

He couldn’t help himself. He traced her lips with a finger and looked as she opened her eyes to look at him, small tears collecting at the corner of her eyes. He kissed her softly, but this time she was the one who didn’t respond, her body probably still aching.

He brought his cheek against hers and grabbed one of her supple breasts with force, pinching the nipple between his fingers. “The pain will wear off,” he whispered, then, suddenly, he started to move out of her. She bent her knees near his sides, giving him better access to her body. He pushed back in with force and she cried in his ear.

His hand left her flushed breast and went to her mouth. He pressed his palm on her lips and started to pick up a pace. She cried out against his hand as he thrust into her with force. He could feel something lubricating her entrance now, but he ignored whether it was her arousal or her blood. It took him longer than he had expected to reach his orgasm. Longer than it had ever taken him with Pansy.

Finally, he felt his balls tighten. He moved his hand from her mouth and grabbed her waist, he pushed her to him as he pushed up to meet her body. He fisted the cushion with his other hand, before doing something that he had never done before when he made love to Pansy. He took out his pulsing erection and rested it on her groin, showering her lower abdomen with the warm rain of his seed.

She groaned out and Draco didn’t know if it was for the fact that he had finished without waiting for her, or because he had just denied her his seed inside of her. He wasn’t ready for a child, even though he imagined that that was probably Astoria’s mission now: giving him an heir.

He rolled off of her, panting for air and resting on his back. She turned slowly on her side and laid her head on his shoulder, but he shook her off rudely, turned away and gave her his back. He closed his eyes and without a word he let her know that that was all the intimacy they were going to have. She didn’t try to touch him again, he felt her shifting on the bed, standing up and walking away, and then the door of the bathroom closed behind his wife.

Later that night, when he was lying under the covers, he heard her laboured breath as she touched herself. She moaned through gritted teeth when she reached her orgasm and then everything went quiet. Draco couldn’t sleep for hours, but when he did, the last thought on his mind was Pansy and what he could do to see her again.


	2. A Necessary Arrangement

***

When Pansy walked into Borgin and Burkes the day after the wedding, she was surprised to find Mr Borgin already in the shop. His thin body was curved over the box of coins that Theodore had sold them. He didn’t even raise his eyes when he heard the door opening. At six in the morning, there weren’t many people who would have walked the street of Knockturn Alley, and even less that had a key to the shop.

“You’re late, girl,” drawled Mr Borgin, raising a coin in a gloved hand and looking closely at it through his loupe.

Pansy sighed. “Five minutes,” she let out a sigh, slightly annoyed. “Nobody is here anyway.”

“I don’t pay you to be late,” he grumbled, turning the coin on the other side.

She wanted to tell him that he didn’t pay her enough to be on time either, but before she could reply something she would have regretted, he sniggered and she turned to look at him.

“Bring me a mouse, girl,” he ordered, putting the coin back in the box and finally looking up at her.

She turned and rolled her eyes. She didn’t like it when he ordered her to bring him a mouse. Not that she didn’t like to pick up the animals in her hands, the rodents were not the problem. The problem was what he was going to do to them. She went into the back of the shop and hung her jacket on the rusty nail – which had become  _her_  rusty nail.

She walked through the room. The back of the shop was as big as the shop itself and even darker than the front. There were boxes that have been closed and sealed for ages, tons of books of the most obscure nature and in a corner on the very end, right next to the staircase that led to Mr Borgin’s flat, there was a cage of mice.

She looked down at them. Their brown fur was sparse and their red eyes looked out of the cage with belligerence. Every time they heard a noise coming from outside, they squirmed with their acute voices, probably thinking that something bad was going to happen to them. They looked like miniature rats, but were actually as squeamish as hamsters.

Pansy lowered her head to the cage level and the creatures all gathered on the opposite corner. She had the difficult decision to choose one of the animals for Mr Borgin to torture and she really couldn’t bring herself to do it.

She didn’t particularly like mice, but she didn’t want them to suffer for no reason. Yet according to Mr Borgin there was a reason: he was testing the artefacts to understand what they had been enchanted to do. But still… Pansy didn’t like to think of herself as a particularly sensitive girl, but she was not that cruel.

“Girl,” Mr Borgin called her, impatience in his voice.

She took a sharp breath, opened the cage, shut her eyes and closed her fingers around the first animal she happened to find. She brought it out and closed the cage again, the other mice squealed and ran in circles around the enclosure.

She couldn’t help looking at the mouse in her hand, it was a small, ugly thing whose little feet were rolling around in the futile attempt of freeing itself. Pansy patted it gently on the head and its pointy teeth tried to bite on her finger.

She sighed as she came out of the back of the shop. She put the mouse on the counter, right in front of Mr Borgin and the sweaty hand of the wizard grabbed the animal with force. He turned it on its back in the palm of his hand and picked up a coin between his fingers.

A delighted expression appeared upon his face as he brought the coin in contact with the mouse’s belly. Pansy had to turn when the creature started to squeal in pain, his little body shaking in Mr Borgin’s hand. She closed her eyes and took a sharp breath, inhaling the disgusting smell of burnt fur and skin.

Luckily, it didn’t last for long though, because the wizard seemed to understand that the mouse would not have survived a prolonged exposure to the artefact. When the animal’s squeals became a feeble squeaking, she knew that he had stopped his tortures. From the back of the shop came the squeals of the other mice, and Pansy imagined that they were trying to communicate with their companion.

“Wonderful,” gloated Mr Borgin. “Take it back to the cage,” he ordered Pansy.

Pansy turned and looked at the small creature with pity in her eyes. The animal was panting lightly, its feet completely motionless and its red eyes closed. On its belly there was the red mark of the coin. It looked painful and deep, and it had burnt all the fur around it, leaving a bald, red, smoking spot on the mouse. The engraving on the coin had been impressed on the creature’s skin and blisters were already forming around it.

“Take it,” barked Mr Borgin, shaking the mouse in his hand. The animal squealed loudly. Pansy hurried to grab it from his hands.

He bent on the notebook he had in front of him and dunked his feather into the ink bottle. “Number of coins,” he murmured slowly, looking into the box, “five. Preceding owner…” He looked at Pansy. “Who brought them again?”

“Theodore Nott,” she replied, her eyes still on the little creature in her hands.

“Theodore Nott,” he repeated, scribbling down the name. “Properties.” He licked his lips happily. “Burn skin, cause immense pain.” He looked at the animal thoughtfully. “Side effects…” He wrote the words and then closed his notebook with a loud slam that made the animal whimper. “We’ll have to wait for that.”

Pansy bit her bottom lip, weren’t the pain and the burning important enough side effects?

“What are you waiting for, girl?” asked Mr Borgin heatedly. “Bring the mouse back to its cage.”

Pansy glared defiantly at the wizard, but didn’t reply as she went to put the animal back. She tried to lull it a bit in her hand, but the mouse looked like it was on the brink of breathing its last breath. She opened the cage again and the other mice went flat against the bars. She placed the animal carefully in the middle of the cage and it didn’t move. She tried to poke it with a finger, but it barely reacted, moving its legs feebly.

The other mice kept their distances as long as her hand was in there. She withdrew from the cage and grabbed a generous fistful of mice food. She made it rain gently around the mouse and the other animals hurried to eat it. Then she closed the cage again and walked back to the front of the shop.

“Sit,” ordered Mr Borgin hurriedly, patting the stool next to him. “Sit straight and smile, didn’t you see the bride yesterday?”

Pansy slumped on the stool and rolled her eyes. She had seen the bride and was not impressed by her haughty posture. She straightened her shoulders a bit and forced a smile on her face.

“She was a beautiful little thing, wasn’t she?” he continued, his long fingers going to his greasy hair. “Worthy of a Malfoy.”

Pansy didn’t reply, but she felt the muscles of her back tensing up at his remarks. She stared at the door and hoped fervently for a customer to come in. The door was unlocked, the sign signalled that the shop was open, but it was still too early for a client.  _It’s never too early for customers_ , she thought, repeating in her mind what Mr Borgin always used to say.

“You don’t talk today, girl?” asked Mr Borgin abruptly. He grabbed the stool where she was sitting, his thumb worming deviously under her buttock. Suddenly, he turned the seat towards him and she had to grab the counter with her hand not to fall down. “You should look someone in the eyes when they are talking to you,” he told her rudely.

She looked into his eyes. “Yes,” she hissed, “she made a fine bride and she is worthy of a Malfoy.”

Mr Borgin seemed satisfied with her reply. “I think that’s the way the world works,” he told her thoughtfully. “Those who have the money, the title and the right blood and those who don’t.” He looked at her and she lowered her eyes. “Like you and me, girl.”

Pansy bit her bottom lip. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to let him know that she was nothing like him, that he was wrong, that she had had the money once and that her blood was not tainted… But she couldn’t. She knew, deep down, that he was right and she hated him for that.

Luckily, the door opened with a loud creak and a witch walked in. She was tall and slim, and she was wearing a long, black dress and a pointy hat on her head. Under her untidy mass of raven curls, her white face looked uncomfortable. Probably it was her first time in Knockturn Alley. Pansy knew that look.

She jumped at the occasion to get away from her boss. “Good morning, Madam,” she greeted, standing up from the stool and taking a few steps towards the witch.

“Smile,” she heard Mr Borgin hiss at her back and her lips spread into an artificial smile.

“Can I help you?” continued Pansy as she had obtained no answer from the witch. “We sell and buy anything.”

The witch looked around herself nervously and walked briskly to Pansy, but it was only when she was sure that there was no other customer in the shop that she took out a small box. “I found this,” she hesitated, placing it on the counter in front of Pansy, “amongst my grandfather’s possessions.”

She opened it and Pansy peered down at the object inside. It was a candle, a black, short candle that looked like it had never been used before.

“I don’t know what it does,” mumbled the witch, biting her bottom lip, “but I don’t suppose it’s anything good.”

“I’m sure it’s something good,” smirked Mr Borgin, pulling the box towards himself. He looked at the candle with interest. “It looks like a poisonous candle.” He raised his eyes on the witch. “Your grandfather must have found it a wonderful way to get rid of unwanted acquaintances.”

The witch swallowed, flushing red. “No, no,” she hurried to say, “it’s new. See? He never used it.”

“Some enchanted candles don’t spoil,” Mr Borgin pointed out.

The witch paled again and Pansy felt like they were going to lose the first client of the day. She had to take the situation in her own hands. It was clear that the witch didn’t want to take the item back home, but she looked quite shaken at the discovery that maybe her grandfather had used Dark Magic to kill someone. She looked ready to go right to the Ministry to report the item instead of selling it to them.

“I’m sure your grandfather never used it,” Pansy reassured her, rolling the candle in the box. “See? It’s covered in dust just on the upper side, it means he never took it out.”

The witch seemed to be slightly relieved at her words. “He was a good wizard,” she assured her.

Pansy smiled. “I’m sure he was,” she agreed.

Mr Borgin snorted behind her, but Pansy did her best to ignore him and focus her attention on the woman. “You wanted to sell it or exchange it?” she asked sweetly.

The woman’s eyes widened. “No, no!” she replied quickly. “Sell it.” Despite her answer, she looked around herself as if she were looking for something that could have interested her, but Pansy knew that there wouldn’t be anything of her liking in the place.

“Are you sure?” asked Mr Borgin silkily. “We have a pair of cursed earrings that would be a perfect present for an insufferable neighbour.”

The witch shuddered and Pansy turned to glare at Mr Borgin. He looked up at her with a malicious smile on his lips. “Beautiful things, aren’t they?” he asked her, patting the small of her back.

Pansy clenched her jaw. Why was he working against her? Was he testing her skills as a shop assistant? He should have known by now that she was much better than he had ever been. She felt the urge to tell him to shut up, but couldn’t because at that very moment, the door of the shop opened another time. It startled the witch who turned around to look at the person who had just walked in with a flutter of robes. It was not a client.

“Borgin,” a tall man greeted, nodding to the owner. “Miss Parkinson,” he added with a small smile upon his lips.

Pansy nodded to the man. “Mr Burke,” she replied.

“Burke,” Mr Borgin called him, standing up, “glad you could make it.” He stood up and gestured for him to follow him into the back of the shop, the two men disappeared behind the thick curtain.

The witch furrowed her brow. “I thought Mr Burke was dead,” she murmured confused.

“He is,” confirmed Pansy, “that’s his brother.”

“Oh,” she exclaimed, “and is he also in… this kind of business?” Her voice lowered as she spoke those last words.

Pansy smiled without reply. She wasn’t sure what kind of business Mr Burke was in, she knew that he owned a small shop down the alley. Something half-way between an apothecary and a potion shop. “So, you said you wanted to sell, right?” asked Pansy gently.

The witch nodded. She came closer to Pansy and lowered her voice. “And I would like this transaction to be kept private.”

Pansy smiled. “Every transaction here at Borgin and Burkes is confidential,” she assured her. “Let me evaluate it for you.” She opened a drawer and took out a pair of small, dirty gloves. She wore them and proceeded on to examine the candle.

“Exquisite technique,” she murmured, turning the candle into her hands. “Probably Indian.” She turned it upside down. “Oh,” she added, touching the bottom of the candle. “There’s a scratch.”

The witch looked apprehensively at Pansy. “But it still works, doesn’t it?” she asked.

Pansy put it back in the box. “The only way to know it is to try it on someone,” she pointed out solemnly. She looked at the witch with a soft smile on her lips. “Do you want to try it on someone in particular?”

The witch paled. “Oh Merlin, no!” she muttered. “Is it still valuable?”

Pansy closed the box. “Well, like this without knowing if it actually works I can’t offer you more than five Galleons.”

The witch gasped. “I’ve seen poisonous candles being sold for 30 Galleons down the street!” she protested out loud.

Pansy pushed the box towards the woman. “Then maybe you should go and try to sell it to them,” she replied sweetly. Then she looked at the witch and smiled. “Keep away from Grunter, though, he wouldn’t hesitate to light it under your nose to test if it works.”

The witch brought her hands to her mouth, her eyes became wide in horror. “No, no,” she murmured, “five Galleons will be fine.”

Pansy pulled the candle back towards her and smiled. She stepped towards the registry and pulled out five golden Galleons. She counted them in front of the witch, and once she was satisfied, she put them on the counter. The witch gathered the money in her hand and pocketed them quickly.

“Thank you for doing business with us, Madam,” smiled Pansy as the witch turned on her heels, visibly unhappy with the transaction.

“Thank you,” replied the witch stiffly, slipping out of the shop, her hat pulled down over her face.

Pansy pushed the candle towards Mr Borgin’s side of the counter. He would want to examine it himself. She was confident he would find that its actual value was between 30 and 50 Galleons. She smirked as she sat back down on the stool.

She was good, so good, at her job.

***

Draco Malfoy steered the car into a small, uneven street and pushed on the accelerator. After two weeks of honeymooning, all he wanted was to go back home where he could escape Astoria in some forgotten corner of the Manor. Instead of bringing them closer together, as she had probably hoped, the honeymoon had, if possible, strained their relationship even more.

They were supposed to go on a cruise on some forsaken island in the middle of the ocean, but Draco had insisted in changing their plan and going on a car ride through Europe. Driving calmed him down, especially after a long day spent with Astoria, and he liked the idea of showing off his expensive car in those small villages of the continent.

“I’m sure your mother will be disappointed,” hissed Astoria icily from the passenger seat.

Draco clenched his jaw. They had had that conversation so many times that he lost count. “My mother should mind her own business,” he replied curtly.

“This is  _her_  business,” snapped Astoria, “she wants to make sure her household has an heir.”

Draco steered in a small country lane and passed next to a sign that announced that they were entering Wiltshire. “I don’t want to have a child now,” he replied harshly. “I’m still young.”

“You have duties,” she reminded him coldly. “As do I.”

Draco snorted. “Please, Astoria, you make it sound so romantic,” he mocked.

Astoria didn’t reply, but Draco could feel she was keeping her eyes stubbornly away from him. “Daphne got pregnant during her honeymoon,” she pointed out emotionlessly.

Draco shook his head. He wanted to taunt Astoria, to tell her that there surely was something wrong with her, that maybe they were not supposed to have children. He couldn’t. He knew perfectly well that it was all his fault. He had done all that was in his power to avoid getting her pregnant. He had come in her mouth, yes, but he had never come while he was sheathed inside her womb. The last time he had withdrawn his erection from her folds and come on her stomach, she had cried out in annoyance, her hands fisting the sheets under her sweaty body. She had swung her legs on the bed and walked to the bathroom, the door banging at her back.

“Your mother will want to know what’s wrong with us,” she continued, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Draco turned right into a small drive and Malfoy Manor appeared ahead of them. “I couldn’t care less.”

Just like he had done with Pansy, he sped through the iron gates and came to a stop in front of the house. To his surprise and horror, his mother was standing in front of the door, apparently waiting for their return.

Astoria opened the door and climbed down, she walked around the car and Draco could see a bright smile appear on her lips. She walked to his mother and gave her a quick hug. Draco couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged his mother.

He tapped his fingers on the wheel, seriously considering restarting the car and driving away. He hadn’t driven through London yet, and he knew there was a place where he wanted to go. Instead, he unfastened his seatbelt and got out of the car.

“Mother,” Draco greeted his mother as he walked up to the door.

Narcissa tilted her head and he brushed his lips on her cheek, before walking past the two women and into the Manor. He glanced back at the car and saw that a couple of house-elves had started unloading their numerous suitcases.

Astoria and Narcissa followed Draco inside, their steps soft on the polished floor.

“I’m confident you had a pleasant journey,” smiled his mother, her voice vibrating with something Draco couldn’t quite define. Trepidation?

“Yes, we did,” replied Astoria evenly. “France was quite an interesting place.”

“I hope he didn’t tire you out, Astoria,” continued Narcissa, and as Draco turned to look at the two women he saw his mother’s hand ghosting on Astoria’s belly.

Astoria looked at Draco icily. “No, Narcissa,” she replied softly, and Draco wondered at what point the two women had started to address each other by their first names. “I have no reason to be tired.” She got closer to Narcissa and whispered, “Yet.”

Draco looked from her to his mother, who was now glaring at her son. She surely felt that he had betrayed their name, not being able to be up to their expectations. Not being able to impregnate his wife.

Narcissa walked into the drawing room and a hot cup of tea was served to them. “I’m quite glad you are back,” she confessed, sitting gracefully on the armchair, “this house was so empty without you.”

“Surely Father was company enough for you,” replied Draco quietly, his cup of tea untouched on the coffee table.

Narcissa turned her grey eyes to look at her son. “Your father came back only today,” she let him know.

Draco frowned. “Where did he go?”

“London,” she informed him. “There was a bit of a nuisance he had to take care of.” She looked at Draco seriously and for a moment the horrid thought of his father taking care of Pansy crossed Draco’s mind.

“What nuisance?” he asked, his words coming in a whisper.

“Someone told the Ministry that we kept Dark Artefacts in our dungeons,” thundered Lucius, walking into the drawing room. “I had to see my legal representative to decide what to do to about these allegations.”

Draco sighed soundlessly in relief, then looked at his father. “Are you expecting a raid?”

Lucius went to stand near the fireplace and leaned his arm on the mantelpiece. “The Ministry is still too busy with the fugitive Death Eaters from the Second Wizarding War, and I reckon it was one of them who informed them.” Lucius’ face darkened. “Information in exchange for sentence reductions, you can’t trust anybody these days.”

“I suppose we will have to get rid of the artefacts,” reasoned Draco, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Narcissa looked at him as if she understood perfectly well what he was thinking. It made him feel uncomfortable that his mother could read his mind so well. Or maybe his thoughts were painfully clear to everybody in that room.

“We have already, Draco,” Lucius informed him, a smirk stretching his lips. “They’ve been shipped.”

Draco frowned, disappointment creeping on his face. “Shipped where?” he asked.

“A secure location,” replied Lucius curtly, “you don’t need to know.”

Draco closed his fists. “I think I should know,” he hissed. “I’m a grown man.”

“A grown man doesn’t feel the urge to inform other people that he is,” replied Lucius, eyeing his son with severity. “Did you have a pleasant journey in the car?”

Astoria, who had probably waited until that very moment to say something, looked quite content to be able to speak. “Indeed,” she replied with a soft smile. “Draco drives so very well.”

Lucius nodded, unimpressed. Draco knew how much his father disliked that car, the only Muggle thing that Draco himself had ever found fascinating enough to keep.

“I suppose you want to freshen up before dinner,” stated Narcissa, standing up. “We are eating at seven tonight.”

Astoria smiled without showing her teeth, she stood up and walked towards the door that led to the hallway. Narcissa followed her and as soon as they walked out of the drawing room, Draco could hear their hushed voices probably talking about the honeymoon and the issue of an heir.

When they couldn’t be heard anymore, Lucius looked at his son, his expression was undecipherable as he walked to the armchair closest to Draco and sat down, crossing his legs and puckering his lips thoughtfully. “I know you are a grown man,” he finally assured him, his voice low, “I didn’t want to speak in front of your mother and Astoria.”

Draco felt a slight excitement gripping his interiors in anticipation of knowing things that he had to keep secret from the two women.

“You will have to start taking care of some things,” continued Lucius. “Now that your honeymoon is over, you will need to learn how to administrate our fortune and take care of our business.”

Draco delighted in his father’s words. He was finally going to be given an important position in the household, and he was looking forward to taking care of the family business.

Lucius looked gravely at Draco. “And you will need to procreate a male heir,” he added coldly, making Draco groan inwardly.

***

“Are these things that you bought today, Miss Parkinson?” asked Mr Burke as he walked into Borgin and Burkes and glanced at the numerous items on the counter.

“Not all of them,” confessed Pansy, “most, though.”

Mr Burke raised his chin and looked at her with a soft smile on his lips. “You are very talented,” he asserted quietly.

Pansy smiled back complacently, she liked to be complimented and that didn’t really happen that often in there.

“Is Mr Borgin in the back?” asked Mr Burke, looking past Pansy.

She stood up from the stool and turned to open the curtains that disguised the passage to the back of the shop. “Yes,” she replied, “he is waiting for you, Mr Burke.”

“Thank you, Miss Parkinson.” The old man gave her a nod, walking past her.

Pansy walked in behind the wizard and retrieved her jacket from the wall. “Mr Burke?” she called after him.

“Yes?” replied the man, turning.

“Can you tell Mr Borgin that I’m closing the shop and going home?” she asked. “And that the items we bought today are on the counter for inventory.”

Mr Burke nodded at her and disappeared, swallowed by the darkness of the room. Pansy let the curtain fall back into place and wore the jacket, buttoning it up. She crossed the shop with swift steps, turned the sign on the door from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’ and walked out. As she busied herself into locking the door, the chilly September air hit her cheeks, making her shiver.

She put the key in her pocket, next to her wand, and started to walk towards Diagon Alley. In the evening, Knockturn Alley was quite different than the morning. The street was bustling with life and the temporary stalls were covering both sides of the alley, making it possible for Pansy to walk only in the middle of the road.

She walked past two wizards who were fighting noisily and had to duck to avoid a curse that had been inadvertently sent her way. She stuffed her hands deep in her pockets and lowered her eyes to avoid making some undesired eye-contact. She could hear the voices of people screaming bargains and selling things, but didn’t once look up from the dirty, cobbled street.

“Ten Galleons!” called a witch as she walked past a stall that sold dodgy looking potions. “Ten Galleons for a poison!”

A tall man with a hooked nose stepped in front of Pansy, making her stop in her tracks. “A cursed necklace for the lady,” he purred to her.

“No,” replied Pansy curtly, stepping to his side and walking away. Her steps slightly quicker than before. Apart from her horrible boss, the dead end job and the meagre salary, the walk home was the thing that she hated the most about her day.

“Cursed earrings?” called the man behind her.

Pansy rolled her eyes and continued without replying to him. If she hadn’t needed that walk after a whole day closed in Borgin and Burkes, she would have happily Apparated home. But that and the walk to the shop were the only times when she could see the sky above her head, especially because she spent most of her lunch break tidying up the back of the shop.

Suddenly, a strong hand grabbed her upper arm and Pansy turned to confront the wizard to whom that hand belonged. If there was something that she didn’t like, it was to be touched by a stranger. In fact she could barely stand it when people she knew touched her. Except for Draco, she didn’t seem able to get enough of his skin against hers when they were together.

The man smirked to her and let one of his hands come to rest on her hip. He didn’t seem to care that they were in the middle of the street and he was probably right not to worry about it, Pansy knew that nobody would move a finger to help her if she couldn’t take care of herself.

“What is a poor, defenceless girl doing in a street like this?” he murmured to her, his voice deep and menacing.

Pansy looked calmly into his eyes. “I’m sorry, Sir,” she replied sweetly. “Who says I’m defenceless?” She silently drew out her wand and raised it between the two of them. “ _Stupefy_ ,” she said out loud. A jet of scarlet light left her wand and hit the man in the chest, making him fly a few metres in the air and fall on the cobbles with a hard thump.

The street became quiet for a few seconds and Pansy felt a hundred pairs of eyes on her. She sighed as she put her wand away and resumed her walking without looking around. She was sure that after that nobody would bother her on her way home that evening.

The movement in the street resumed as quickly as it had stopped and she found herself sprinting the last few feet before Diagon Alley. When she finally turned onto the lively street she let out the breath that she didn’t know she was holding.

She felt much more at home in Knockturn Alley, that was sure, but Diagon Alley was just much quieter and she never had any problems as she walked through the streets in the warm light of the sunset. She was glad the cheapest flat she had found around that area was on that street.

She walked past Obscurus Books and turned right into a narrow side street with very little light. There, a black door with a rusty handle and faulty lock opened on a steep set of stairs that went up the interiors of the building like a snake. Pansy had been renting the flat on the very last floor for more than a year now and she thought of it as her home.

She climbed up the stairs until her muscles hurt her, walking past the only two other flats that there were in the building. One was empty and one had just been rented by a family with two small children. Pansy reached the landing in front of her flat, a couple of empty flower pots welcomed the visitors into her house.

She unlocked the door and stepped in. As she flicked her wand lazily, lamps all around the flat sparked to life. Pansy was grateful that her flat was so small, because all she could do was to take a couple of steps before collapsing on the couch with a groan. She was hungry, but she knew that her fridge was emptier than her stomach. And at the thought that she still needed three more months to pay off the dress that she had bought for Draco’s wedding, she felt dizzy. She pushed her head in the cushions and sighed. She wanted to stay on that couch forever, but she knew that that would have not been a reasonable thing to do.

With difficulty, she stood from the couch and dragged herself towards the kitchen table. A pile of letters was sitting there since that morning. There was a free copy of the Daily Prophet to interest her into renewing her subscription, a lot of advertisements and some replies to her weekly job applications. She didn’t have to open them to know that she had, once again, not been a successful candidate. She wondered what was wrong with her. Overqualified, underqualified, Dark Magic, connections to Voldemort. Those people would find any excuse not to hire her.

She opened the letters anyway, even though she was sure that she would still have to drag herself to Borgin and Burkes the next morning. Madam Malkin said that she was sorry, but she didn’t hire witches that had worked in Knockturn Alley. Madam Primpernelle’s wrote back that her picture lacked that something that she needed to land the job, they suggested her to use one of their potions and take another picture. Terrortours just let her know that they were not interested in the most impersonal way. She tore the letters to pieces and threw them away along with the adverts.

On the table remained only the Prophet and a letter from Georgina Strasears. Miss Strasears was Pansy’s landlady. She had never seen her once, but Pansy couldn’t complain about her. When something broke someone came to fix it straight away and when she had to delay the payment of her rent she found out that Miss Strasears was very understanding. The newest letter informed her that payment was due in three days, but once again Pansy would have to delay. She took parchment and ink from a drawer and wrote a quick note to her landlady. She would have it posted tomorrow on her way to work.

She felt a bit disappointed that, once again, there was no letter from Draco. She hadn’t heard a word from him since his wedding and she hated the fact that she felt like a silly schoolgirl, waiting for the letter from that one boy. With a sigh, she looked out of the window onto the shops in the street, most of them were closing down and some were already closed. As Pansy walked to the sink, she grabbed a clean, empty glass and filled it with tap water. She imagined it to be turkey and potatoes and hoped that the thought alone would make her feel less hungry.

She sighed. She would have never thought that one day she would be poorer than a Weasley.

***

Draco didn’t expect the job that his father had promised him to be quite like this. He had been sitting at the desk in his study for hours, examining the list of unwanted items that had been removed from the Manor with increasing tedium.

Summoned by Lucius, Mr Bolden, the family legal representative, would be arriving any minute now into Draco’s study. The reason of his visit had not been made clear by his father, but Draco knew that there were a few things that they would have to discuss. The Malfoy fortune? The Dark Artefacts? Maybe Draco’s will? It was never too early to write a will, especially when one was as wealthy as Draco. But he expected to be talking about the artefacts, even though he couldn’t imagine why he would need Mr Bolden’s help.

Someone knocked on the door and Draco sighed. He still had a pile of documents on his desk that he hadn’t even had the time to skim through.

“Come in,” he replied, straightening his back and trying to look as professional as he could.

The heavy door opened and his father walked in, followed closely by Mr Bolden. The family representative was a small man with sparse, white hair and a wrinkled face. He looked at Draco with icy blue eyes and his thin lips turned in a beaming smile as he walked towards the younger Malfoy.

“Draco, you do remember Mr Bolden, I suppose?” asked Lucius, closing the door at their backs.

Draco did remember him, he had seen him multiple times with his father, but he had never talked to him except for the usual, polite, small talk.

Draco stood up. “Of course,” he assured, stretching his hand to shake Mr Bolden’s. “Mr Bolden, please sit down.” He gestured towards one of the armchairs in front of the desk and as Mr Bolden took out some voluminous documents, his father sat across from him on the other armchair.

“Mr Malfoy,” greeted Mr Bolden in his high pitched voice, “your father informed me of his decision.”

Draco looked from Mr Bolden to his father. “He did?” he asked uncertain exactly about what decision this might have been.

“Since you are now an adult, Draco, I expect you to be informed about every detail of the state of our fortune,” explained his father calmly. “You will be made aware of the investments that we make, the way we spend our fortune, the things we buy and sell. Everything.” He looked intently at Draco. “But don’t worry, I do realise that it will take time for you to become accustomed to the ways in which we operate.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. He agreed. It would take him a lot of time to know everything he should know about their business. What was the Malfoy business anyway? Suddenly he realised that he didn’t know anything about it.

“To get you started, Mr Malfoy thought it fitting for you to engage in the task of disposing of the Dark Artefacts that might bring your whole family in front of the Wizengamot,” explained Mr Bolden.

Draco nodded, his grey eyes looking attentively at the representative as he fumbled with some documents. “Here, there’s a list of the items that we have removed from your house,” he explained, handing Draco the same list that he had been reading until that moment. “And here,” he added, giving him another piece of parchment, “here there’s a list of possible buyers for those artefacts.”

Draco’s eyes glanced distractedly to the second list and his heart skipped a beat. The first name on the list was Borgin and Burkes.

“Remember, Mr Malfoy,” warned Mr Bolden sternly, “no trading, no buying, only selling.”

Draco put the list on the desk and looked at the man, annoyed. “I’m not stupid,” he hissed, gaining a glare from his father. “Where are the items anyway?”

“That’s an undisclosed piece of information,” replied Lucius.

Draco gritted his teeth, his eyes staring coldly at his father. “I should know this piece of information,” he hissed, “how am I supposed to move them if I don’t know?”

“You’re not supposed to move them,” explained Lucius quietly, “you are supposed to act as a mediator between the family and the buyers.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think it would be wise,” he pointed out, “what if they recognise me? Wouldn’t that raise too many questions?”

Lucius smirked. “You are not supposed to reveal yourself, Draco,” he explained softly, “you will have quite a lot of writing to do.”

“Writing?”

Mr Bolden nodded. “You will only have to contact the buyers, I will take care of the transaction,” he continued. “Under no circumstances are you to reveal your name.”

Draco looked from his father to Mr Bolden. That was not what he had expected. Not at all. He had been looking forward to taking care of the family business and now… he had to write letters for all of the upcoming year apparently.

He sighed. When he had noticed that Borgin and Burkes was the first name on that list he had fooled himself into believing he would be able to see Pansy. Now it didn’t seem a possibility at all.

“I will come here every Wednesday morning to collect the replies you have received, and to give you my reports on the transactions that have been made,” announced Mr Bolden.

Draco gripped the edge of his desk. “I’m sure I can do more than sit here and write letters,” he hissed.

His father tutted. “Not for now,” replied Lucius curtly.

“We’ve always been good clients of Borgin and Burkes, surely nobody will suspect anything if I pay them a visit,” he continued tentatively.

Lucius glared at his son, then, without replying to him he turned his attention to Mr Bolden. “Thank you for coming all the way from London, Mr Bolden,” he murmured gracefully. “Let me escort you to the carriage.”

Mr Bolden stood up. “Mr Malfoy,” he addressed Draco, offering his hand again. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

“Likewise,” replied Draco through gritted teeth as he shook Mr Bolden’s hand.

Lucius put a hand on the wizard’s back and gently guided him out of the study, leaving Draco alone at his desk. As soon as the door had closed at their backs, he glanced again to the list of possible buyers, his fingers ghosting on the first name on the list. “Pansy,” he whispered before the door opened and a little house-elf entered with a tray of tea and biscuits over his head.

Work was over.

***

Draco’s eyes twinkled with excitement when he opened the letter he had just received. It was from Mr Bolden and he regretfully informed him that he couldn’t possibly make it that Wednesday. Or the Wednesday after that. Or any other Wednesday. The wizard had been offered a part-time position in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and he would be busy most mornings. In the afternoons, he had his office to run so he couldn’t possibly come to Wiltshire. He went on to say that it was probably all for the best though, because with this position he could certainly make some papers concerning the Malfoy family disappear and cover up the issue of the Dark Artefacts. He would have still followed Draco’s work, only through his letters and not in person.

Draco put the letter down. No, he wouldn’t have had any of that. He really couldn’t care less about the Dark Artefacts. The Ministry had slacken up a bit with their raids and constant pursuing of illegal items, and somehow Draco knew that his father just wanted to keep him busy while he kept all of the family business in his own hands. Otherwise, Lucius wouldn’t have found such a menial job for his son.

A couple of months had gone by since Draco’s first encounter with Mr Bolden and he had only sold a tenth of the items on the list. There were still hundreds to go and now it was getting more and more difficult to find buyers; so work had slowed down and Draco had spent the last few weeks trying to contact as many people as he could. And as he had waited for replies in his office, the idea of asking a certain person to help him with the mediation job crossed his mind but, knowing how badly that suggestion would have been received by his father, he couldn’t find the courage to ask him.

After reading Mr Bolden’s letter though, an idea flashed through his brain and Draco seemed to find it completely legit.

He stood quickly from his chair and walked into the hallway. Draco’s hand squeezed the letter as he reached his father’s study and knocked vigorously on the door.

“Come in,” replied Lucius calmly from the other side.

The younger Malfoy opened the door to find his father focused on a pile of parchments. He walked in and closed the door at his back. “Father,” he called him, his voice firm, “we need to talk.”

Lucius didn’t look up from the parchment. “Have you sold any more artefacts?” he asked quietly.

“No,” replied Draco, sitting on one of the armchairs. “I’m going to London.”

Lucius looked up and leaned his back against the chair. “Are you?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Draco nodded. “Mr Bolden will be unable to come and meet me here, so I’ll be going to his office,” he let him know.

“On Wednesday?” he asked thoughtfully.

“Every Wednesday.”

Lucius tutted his disapproval. “You are a Malfoy, your subordinates should come to you, not vice-versa,” he told him coldly.

“I know, but I’m sure my superiority won’t be called into question,” he replied as coldly as his father.

Lucius raised his eyebrows. “You are an adult, Draco,” he informed him flatly, “do as you like.”

Draco suppressed a smirk. “You are right, Father,” he replied with badly concealed excitement in his voice. “I’ve also decided to contact Mr Borgin.” He stared at his father as he stared back. “I’m sure he can help me with my work.”

Lucius didn’t say anything, but Draco could see his muscles jolt under the skin on his face. He nodded curtly, giving him his unwilling consent, after all he had just said that he could do what he liked.

Draco took a sharp breath and turned on his heels, his lips stretched into an excited smile.

“Draco,” his father called after him as he walked out of the door. “Don’t let your mother and Astoria know.”

Draco nodded. It would have been an incredible pleasure to look at their faces as he told them that he was going to visit Pansy in Knockturn Alley, but he knew he should not underestimate those two cunning women. Merlin knew what they would be able to do to drive her away from him another time.

He went back to his study and sat again at his desk and scribbled quickly a reply for Mr Bolden, informing him of his plans. He put the message in an envelope and drew out another piece of parchment. He started to write to Pansy.

He stopped almost immediately and looked at the two lines that informed his friend of the fact that he was coming to Borgin and Burkes. He shook his head and tore the letter in half. A surprise would do. He wanted to see her face when she saw him.

***

Pansy sat next to the cage of mice, Mr Borgin’s notebook opened in her lap, a feather in her hand. The moment the shop owner had understood that, apart from a great deal of pain and an extended scar that would be forever imprinted on the skin of the animal, the cursed coins didn’t have any particular side effect, he lost interest in the item and in the little creature he had tortured. It was now up to Pansy to register the various stages of the healing of the animal and how fast he recovered from the torture.

Two months after Mr Borgin had pushed the coin against its skin, the mouse had finally started to manage to turn back on its four legs, a month after that it could walk around the cage and another two months after that it looked like the animal was back to normal.

Pansy dove her hand into the cage and grabbed the mouse. The little creature squirmed and looked alarmed, probably still remembering the great deal of pain it had gone through five months before. Pansy scratched its head and under its chin, but the animal didn’t seem to enjoy it at all. The only thing it seemed to be wanting to do was to bite its way out of her hands. And it did bite her, unexpectedly, when she heard the door of the shop opening and she got distracted trying to understand who had just walked into the shop and if her presence was required at the front.

She let out a hushed cry and squeezed the mouse with her other hand, pulling it away as it licked its tiny mouth, drops of blood falling on the floor. She scolded at the creature and shook it a little. ”Bad mouse!” she muttered.

Pansy turned the animal upside down, tightening her fingers on its little tummy to make it go limp in her hands. She looked at the scar left by the coin. It was well defined and looked more like an engraving than a scar now. She touched it with her fingertips and felt every single line that defined a wizard’s head. The mouse didn’t move, the pain long gone from it now.

She scratched its head again and again, the mouse tried to bite her. She didn’t punish it though, she just put it back in its cage a bit more rudely than she would usually do. She looked at her bleeding fingertip and resisted the temptation of sucking on it. She drew her wand and healed herself with a quick spell, the bite marks closing quickly.

Bending over the notebook, she decided that that would be the last time she would check on the mouse because the animal looked like it was completely healed. She scribbled quickly that in five months the animal had recovered and that there were no magical side effects noticeable.

“Girl,” came the urgent voice of Mr Borgin from the front of the shop. “Come here.”

She sighed, she liked the company of mice much more than she enjoyed that of Mr Borgin, but he was her boss and when he called she had to go. She closed the notebook and put it on a shelf, then she sprinkled some mouse food in the cage, creating a flurry of fur and legs amongst the creatures which were sprinting to the seeds and grains. She covered the cage with a piece of cloth, before walking towards the front.

She smirked inwardly at the smug realisation that once again Mr Borgin needed her to take care of a customer. She drew the curtain and stepped into the shop. And as soon as she laid her dark eyes on the client, though, she stopped in her tracks. Her mouth became dry all of a sudden and her heart skipped a beat.

“Don’t stand there, girl,” hissed Mr Borgin, circling her and pushing her towards the client, “say hello to Mr Malfoy.”

As Pansy was pushed towards Draco she felt like her heart had to make up for the skipped beat as it started to thump furiously in her chest. “Mr Malfoy,” she murmured and she hated the way his name came out of her mouth, breathy and awestruck.

Draco curved one side of his mouth into a half smile, he stretched a hand to shake Pansy’s and looked into her eyes. “Miss Parkinson,” he replied in a business-like way.

She felt the urge to tell him that she had just touched a mouse and that she hadn’t washed her hands, but felt somehow that that would have ruined the moment so, instead, she took his hand and felt his fingers squeezing hers forcefully.

“Mr Malfoy has something to ask you, girl. A job he says,” announced Mr Borgin at her back, irreparably ruining the moment. “I would have done it myself, but our dear friend said he doesn’t want to waste my time with these things.”

Draco let go of her hand and drew an envelope from under his cloak. “Is there a place where we can talk without being disturbed?” asked Draco to Mr Borgin.

The old man beamed at him. “This way, Mr Malfoy,” he told him, raising the curtain that brought to the back. “Miss Parkinson will take care of the customers and we will not be disturbed.” Pansy vaguely registered the fact that was the first time that he didn’t call her ‘girl’.

“I meant Miss Parkinson and I,” announced Draco, with a soft smile.

Mr Borgin looked confused, he probably didn’t imagine Draco would want to speak directly to her, he probably thought that he would have been the one Draco explained the situation to and then he would have bossed Pansy around to do the job for him. He looked from Draco to Pansy and back. Finally, he nodded with a stiff smile on his lips. “Girl,” he haughtily ordered Pansy, “lead him to my office.”

Pansy nodded. His office was nothing more than a table and three chairs pushed in a corner in the back of the shop. The table was situated under the only window in there and even though it was still dark, at least one could see something in that corner. It was also on the opposite side to the front of the shop, making it difficult to overhear a conversation from behind the curtain. Mr Borgin had chosen that corner carefully back in the day.

Pansy grabbed a chair and Draco sat next to her. His grey eyes seemed to look attentively at her.

“I was starting to think that I would never see you again,” she murmured, trying to sound as cold as possible, without fully succeeding.

“I’m here to talk about work, Pansy,” he replied, coldness coming easily to him. “I need your help to sell some items.” He pushed the envelope he had in his hand on the table towards her.

She looked away from him, hating the fact that it hurt a lot to hear his cold tone directed to her. She took a sharp, angry breath and brought her hand to the envelope, she tried to take it, but Draco’s hand zoomed towards it and pushed it flat on the table. “Later,” he murmured. “Now I need to know if you accept the job.”

Pansy withdrew her hand and looked at him coldly. “I don’t know if I can accept the job without knowing what you need me to sell,” she informed him icily.

Draco smirked. “Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are then,” he chuckled, starting to slide the envelope towards himself. “I reckon I should ask someone else.”

This time it was Pansy’s hand that flew towards the envelope to stop him. She bit her bottom lip, a resolute expression on her face. “Nobody is as good as I am, Mr Malfoy,” she replied frostily.

Draco smirked again and raised his hand, letting the envelope go. “Good,” he leered quietly. “Take all the time you need to sell as many items as you can,” he informed her, “inform me when you’ve sold something and never,  _never_  let my name come up.” He looked seriously at her. “Am I understood?”

Pansy looked seriously at him, then she raised her chin and nodded. “Yes,” she replied curtly.

Draco seemed satisfied as he stood up. “Good,” he repeated, smoothing his cloak. “I’ll show myself out.”

Pansy looked transfixed as he walked away, his tall figure swallowed by the darkness of the place. She clenched her jaw and, involuntarily, squeezed the envelope with her fingers, crinkling it a little. She felt like she was dreaming.  _Like she was having a nightmare_. Draco hadn’t done as much as shake her hand with cold distance – and now she was glad she hadn’t washed her hands. He was there to talk about work and that was all. She felt betrayed, she had thought about him for months and now that she finally saw him she felt like she had deluded herself into thinking that he wanted to see her too.

She snorted and shook her head. He was the heir of an immense fortune, married to a pureblood witch and living in a fabulous mansion. And she was the underpaid shop assistant of a Dark Artefacts shop in Knockturn Alley and lived in a flat as big as Draco’s room. It might have been fun as long as it had lasted, but nobody in his right mind would have wanted to keep up a relationship with someone like her, especially when they had what he had.

She shook her head more vigorously, in the vague hope to push Draco to the back of her mind. She tried to call him names in her head, but it was of little use.

Finally, she remembered about the envelope and curiosity won over her desire to tear it into pieces as she broke the Malfoy seal. She took out a folded piece of parchment and, as she did so, another smaller piece fluttered out, falling on the floor.

Pansy unfolded the parchment and skimmed through the items. Spoons, coins, chairs, phials, cushions, goblets, and earrings were only some of the words of which she caught a glimpse. It looked like the list didn’t have any particular order, it was just a mass of things that someone had scribbled down without much care.

She smirked as she noticed a couple of items that might have interested Mr Borgin himself. This was not going to be too difficult and she delighted in the thought that she would amaze Draco at how quickly she did her job.

Pansy folded the list and finally bent down, reaching for the piece of parchment that had fallen on the floor. She picked it up, expecting it to be a note of some sort about the list. It wasn’t and she looked at it warily as she read it.

> _Meet me at 244C Diagon Alley today at 2 p.m. Apparate. – Draco_

She looked at the piece of parchment almost accusingly as she swallowed and found out that her mouth was still dry. Was this another of his games? Was that a joke to make her go there pointlessly? She knew he loved to tease, she knew he could be cruel beyond imagination, she had seen him being cruel with people, but never with herself before.  _There’s always a first time,_  she silently reminded herself.

She read the message again. Then again and again. 244C Diagon Alley was not too far from the Leaky Cauldron. She could vaguely remember the place where that building was, it was a posh area, if Diagon Alley had one. But the place was not a problem, the problem was the time. It was eleven now and she would start her lunch break in an hour, her lunch break should have lasted two hours, but since she spent most of the time in the shop doing some kind of inventory, it usually lasted around ten minutes. Maybe, she could ask Mr Borgin for a change of time, but she knew that he would probably just laugh at her. The shop opened at two in the afternoon, there was no way he would let her go. She cursed Draco under her breath, if he wanted to see her for her job he should have come there at the shop and…

Pansy’s mouth fell open. How stupid could she have been? She didn’t need to do anything except tell Mr Borgin the truth. She was going to see Mr Malfoy about the items. That was it, and it was probably the truth anyway. She stood up, gathered the list in her pocket and walked towards the front.

“Mr Borgin,” she called forcefully, “I will have to absent myself from the shop this afternoon.”

Mr Borgin looked up at her with his little, malignant eyes. “Oh will you?” he drawled mockingly. “And may I know why, girl?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Mr Borgin,” she replied, a hint of enjoyment in her voice as she kept secrets from her boss. “Mr Malfoy was very clear that everything I do concerning his work I have to keep secret.” That Draco hadn’t said, but she imagined he would have appreciated her discretion.

Mr Borgin tilted his head as if considering if she was serious or not. Suddenly, he stood from the stool and crossed the distance between himself and Pansy. She tried to withdraw, but he grabbed her waist with a hand and the hollow between her neck and shoulder with the other one.

“Don’t touch me,” she let out, surprised by the sudden closeness.

He gripped her more forcefully. “You are lucky that Mr Malfoy is bringing us a lot of money, girl,” he hissed, leaning close to her to whisper in her ear. “Because if he wasn’t, I wouldn’t let him have it his way.” Unexpectedly, he trailed his wrinkled lips on Pansy’s smooth skin and gave her a kiss right under her cheekbone, making Pansy’s shiver in disgust.

“So soft,” he moaned against her skin before she could wiggle out of his grip.

She brought a hand to her cheek, feeling violated and enraged by his behaviour. She didn’t want to start dreading working there even more than she did already.

Mr Borgin looked at her as if nothing had happened. He sat back down on the stool and resumed what he was doing before Pansy had walked to the front. “You may go this afternoon,” he informed her with fake magnanimity. “I will hold the money from your salary.” 

***

Draco looked out of the window with impatience. It was five past two in the afternoon. Where was she? She was five minutes late. He didn’t like to wait, he had already been to Mr Bolden’s office and now he had a few hours before he was expected back home. He just wanted to spend those hours in the way he had fantasised about ever since he had decided to go to London.

He stared into Diagon Alley, unsure what to look for. He had told Pansy to Apparate in the flat, but maybe she would walk up to the address and then Apparate inside. Would she be able to do it anyway? There were so many flats in that building and they stretched through impossible spaces, compenetrating each other and making it difficult to find the right place where to Apparate when one did it for the first time. Maybe he should have given her more information about it.

He sighed. She was intelligent enough to find out the place. But where was she? Now she was ten minutes late and he was starting to be annoyed at her. Didn’t she want to see him? In the shop she looked like she was about to faint at his sight. Draco shook his head.  _Faint_. He could never imagine Pansy fainting. She was just not that kind of girl. But she did look taken aback when she had walked to the front of the shop. He smirked. He felt like he had some sort of power over her and he liked it.

A faint pop echoed in the enormous living room where Draco was standing and his back straighten up as he heard someone breathing softly behind him. He turned slowly, anticipating the moment in which he would see her.

Pansy was standing in front of him. Her small figure draped in a cloak, her face serious, her black eyes looking back at him expectantly.

“You are late,” he breathed softly, crossing his arms on his chest.

Pansy cocked her head. “I had difficulties knowing where to Apparate,” she let him know.

Draco nodded. “I thought you weren’t coming,” he whispered, trying hard to keep any emotion out of his voice without succeeding completely.

Pansy puckered her lips. “I never miss a job opportunity,” she replied coldly.

Draco took a deep breath and stepped towards her. His hands were quick as they cupped her cheeks and he leaned down to kiss her hungrily. She brought her hands to his wrists and kissed him back with the same passion that he was showing her. He took a step towards her and she had to take one back and arch her neck as he explored her mouth with his tongue.

After a few minutes, he detached his lips from hers and leaned his forehead against Pansy’s. He panted, feeling his blood thumping in his ears and listening to hers pulsing under his fingertips.

“This is not work, Pansy,” he whispered lustily.

She curved her lips in a smile. “Really? I thought you kissed all of your associates.”

Draco kissed her forehead, smiling at her words. “I missed you,” he whispered.

He felt her wriggle in his hands. “You always say that,” she reminded him softly.

“Because I always do,” he replied quickly.

He tried to lean down to kiss her again, but she withdrew from his hands. She turned and looked around herself, her eyes wide as she probably tried to understand what kind of place she was in. “Where are we?” she asked finally.

Draco walked away from the window and plummeted onto a long, white couch, stretching his arms on the back of it. “My flat,” he replied smugly.

Pansy looked at him warily. “You have a flat in London?” she asked.

Draco nodded. “I bought it last week,” he informed her, “I’ve decided to make my visits to London more frequent and I hardly think I can stay at the Leaky Cauldron.”

Pansy turned her back to him, but he heard her snort anyway. “Of course,” she let out. She walked towards the fireplace where a pleasant fire was crackling joyfully. “It’s big,” she pointed out, envy in her voice.

“Not as big as the Manor,” he reminded her, “but it will do.” He looked at her as she turned. “Why don’t you take off your cloak?” he asked, wetting his lips.

Pansy looked straight in his eyes as she untied the knot at the base of her neck, the cloak opened on the front to reveal her tiny body. She made it slide from her shoulders and laid it down gracefully on a coffee table.

She was wearing a grey top under a soft, black cardigan, her legs were wrapped in black, feminine trousers and she wore black pumps that made her look even shorter than usual. Her hair was pulled back on the front with a headband and her locks reached now right under her shoulders. She smiled at him when she noticed that he was staring at her.

“Take me on a tour,” she proposed, stretching a hand to help him stand.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him, making her sit on his lap. “I have a better idea,” he groaned, tracing her cheekbone with a finger.

She stood up quickly from him and pulled at his hand. “Later,” she whispered, “now show me the place.”

Draco rolled his eyes, but he let her pull him to his feet. “We are in the living room,” he elucidated, with a slow gesture towards of his hand. “The couch comes from France, the coffee table from India and the fireplace from Scotland.” He guided her towards a door. “This is the kitchen,” he continued, opening the door and walking into a big, warm room filled with the newest cooking gadgets both Magical and Muggle. “Please, do feel free to cook me anything you want.”

Pansy snorted, shaking her head slowly. “Likewise,” she told him.

Draco guided her through an arch that opened in the wall. “The dining room,” he continued, walking around a table that could easily accommodate twelve people. He took her back through the kitchen and the living room and walked her through a long hallway. “These are the bedrooms,” he added, gesturing towards the doors. “The bathrooms are en-suite.”

Pansy walked past him and touched the first door, then the second and the third. “Which one is mine?” she asked, laughing shrilly.

Draco grabbed her arm and made her turn to look at him. “Your room is my room,” he murmured in a low purr.

Pansy stood on tiptoes to kiss him. “I like that,” she purred back. “So, which one is it?”

He pushed her against the wall and cupped one of her buttocks. “Do we really need a room?” he asked her, his warm breath washing over the shell of her ear.

To his surprise, Pansy pushed him back. “Yes,” she murmured seriously. “I have to work this afternoon, and Mr Borgin is very particular with cleaned and ironed clothes, you can only have me once I’m naked.”

“I think I can work with that,” Draco growled slowly.

He freed her from his possessive hands and guided her towards the farthest door down the hallway. He pushed it open. The bedroom was immense. A four-poster, king size bed was standing in the middle and on each side there was a XVII century bedside table. Thick, green curtains were gathered against each post of the bed and a massive wardrobe could be found in the corner.

She walked inside and looked around as if she had never seen anything like that. Draco wondered if she had forgotten the Manor and how much grander than this it was.

“Do you like it?” he asked against the hollow of her neck, before proceeding to kiss her there.

Pansy arched against him. “Yes,” she breathed out. “Very appropriate.”

He circled her waist with his arms and pushed her against him. He wondered if she could feel his member getting hard between them and to make sure that she did he thrust against her bottom.

She wriggled against his erection and moaned. “My clothes first,” she managed to say, disentangling herself from him.

Draco looked at her with eyes dark with lust, already missing the lack of contact with her body. He stared as she divested of her clothes and folded them tidily on one of the bedside tables. First, it was the cardigan to go, then her top and finally she stepped out of the trousers. At the end, she reached behind her back to unclasp her bra, but Draco stopped her.

“Wait,” he grunted, his voice low with lust. “I want to do it.”

She looked at him and straightened her back, making her hands fall at her sides. She nodded with a soft smile on her face, but didn’t say anything.

He walked to her and placed his hands on her ribs, feeling the bones under his digits. He made them slip towards her back and found her bra with his fumbling fingers. He unhooked it, keeping his eyes on her small breasts as they perked up at the feeling of his hands on her body.

He made the bra slide down her arms and discarded it on the floor. Apparently, she didn’t care for its fate because she didn’t protest. Draco imagined it didn’t matter if that particular item of clothing got all wrinkled.

He grazed his fingers against her nipples and they hardened under his touch. She moaned and he felt his erection already pushing painfully against the constraint of his trousers. He had sex with Astoria almost every single night, and yet, when he was with Pansy, he felt like he couldn’t control himself, just like it had happened the day of his wedding.

His hands slid down her sides and, grabbing her hips, he steadied himself as he kneeled in front of her. He made his hands slither slowly down her hips, his fingers hooking in the hem of her knickers. They trailed over the sides of her legs as he brought her knickers down in the process.

She slipped out of her underwear with a graceful side step and he grabbed her waist, his thumbs almost touching on her belly. He raised his head to reach her breasts with his tongue, licking and sucking on her small nipples. He could feel her muscles jolt under his fingers and he grabbed her more tightly to keep her in place. He delighted in the small, pointy shape of her breasts and he opened his mouth wide and took as much flesh as he could in his mouth, sucking hard. She let out a soft whimper, her hands going to his hair as she pushed him towards her and arched her back. He released her breast with a loud pop and proceeded to kiss the skin under it.

He followed the line in the middle of her stomach to her navel. He swirled his tongue around and inside it and then went down, planting a kiss on her inner folds. She took a sharp breath, the muscles of her belly and legs quivering under his ministrations. He slid his hands down and parted her legs wider, giving more access to his tongue. She whimpered when he pushed one of her legs above his shoulder and grabbed her buttocks to steady her.

He had never done that to Astoria.  _Malfoys don’t do things like that_ , he had let her know one night. And that was only the second time that he did that to Pansy, the first being her last night at the Manor. Draco had enjoyed it that time, especially because she had never squirmed as much as she did that night. And he was going to enjoy it now.

He brought his nose close to her folds and inhaled her scent before darting his tongue tentatively in her heat. He smirked against her as she grabbed the curtains of the bed to keep herself from falling on her weakening legs. He looked up and noticed that she had scrunched up her eyes and her mouth had fallen open, her fair skin was now flushed and he thought that she had never looked more tempting than that. He started to lick in earnest, his tongue insinuating in her warm passage. He liked her taste and he proceeded to try to memorise her folds with his muscle.

After many strokes that had Pansy moaning, he withdrew, took her clit in his mouth and suck hard on it. She cried out almost immediately, her folds flooding with the juices of her orgasm as she dug the heel of her foot in his back. Her hand fisted the curtains for support and she panted quickly.

Draco put down her leg and withdrew suddenly, he stood up and kissed her with hunger. She was still too dazed to be able to kiss him with the same passion, but he didn’t care. He grabbed her arms and pushed her roughly into the mattress. She lay there without speaking, probably still coming down from her orgasm.

He unfastened his trousers, his hands fumbling with the buttons. He swore in frustration and considered making them magically disappear, but then he would have had to go back home naked. He finally managed to push them down as much as needed to free his erection.

He stroked it slowly, looking at Pansy’s naked body in front of him. He just knew that he had to have her, nothing else mattered at that moment. He grabbed her ankles and raised them to rest on his shoulders. He looked at her, her eyelids were still heavy with pleasure. He looked back down at his erection and with one swift thrust he entered her.

She let out her usual hushed moan of discomfort and he waited to get accustomed once again to her tightness. Then, when the sight of her flushed body under him became too much, he started to push in and out of her. Slowly at first, savouring her warm tightness with every inch of his member, and then faster and faster, until her breasts were bouncing gently with every push. He stretched his hand to squeeze one and her back arched, changing the angle in which he drove into her. She cried out again and he decided that he wanted to kiss her ruby lips another time. He grabbed her legs and parted them, letting himself move deeper into her. He fell on top of her and kissed her lips with passion, still thrusting inside of her.

She was panting heavily now as she put an arm around his shoulders and grabbed his expensive shirt with her tiny fingers. Her legs went to the back of his calves and she pushed herself up to meet his thrusts. When she cried out her second orgasm it was too much for Draco. His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed on top of Pansy as her walls milked his member and he emptied himself into her.

He came with a low, guttural growl, and then his whole body was crushing her against the bed. He could feel her panting, both from the pleasure and from the fact that he was probably compressing her rib cage. She didn’t complain though, and he took his time to roll off her and land silently on his back, next to her.

She took a sharp breath when his weight lifted from her and he felt a vague guilt to have taken so long to move. She rolled on her side and wormed her hand on his chest, still covered in his shirt. He was covered in sweat, but he didn’t care. With satisfaction, he noticed that Pansy’s hair was plastered with perspiration at the base of her neck as well.

“Merlin, I missed you,” he breathed out, squeezing her closer to him.

Pansy laughed out loud. “You already said that,” she replied silkily.

He brought two fingers under her chin and tilted her head back to kiss her again. She responded with passion, sucking on his tongue in a way that made his head spin.

When she withdrew she looked into his eyes and he could see that she was about to say something that he wouldn’t have liked. He was right.

“I have to go,” she breathed out. “I have to go back to the shop.”

He squeezed her tighter. “Forget about work,” he growled against her hair.

She wiggled out of his arms and sat up on the bed. “I wish I could,” she murmured bitterly. She swung her legs over the edge and picked up her underwear, putting it on with quick movements.

Draco looked at her, his hand going instinctively to his limp member as he stared at her body. “I’ll be in London every Wednesday,” he informed her softly. “And I’m free in the afternoon.”

Pansy did up her trousers and looked at him. “So, was the job a trick to get me into bed?”

Draco smiled softly. “Do I need a trick to get you into bed?” he purred. “No, it’s real. And you will tell me everything about it every Wednesday, here in my bedroom.”

Pansy wore the cardigan and raised her eyebrows. “Will you let me talk?” she asked.

Draco sat up and grabbed her wrists, pulling her to him. “I’ll let you talk, moan, cry, beg for more,” he smirked softly, punctuating every word with a kiss on her stomach.

“I mean about the job,” she pointed out, looking unimpressed.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes,” he replied, sighing, “I have to. It’s actually quite an important thing that you are doing for me. We need to get rid of those artefacts before the Ministry’s attention is driven on them.”

Pansy smiled before leaning down to kiss Draco. “I’ll see you next Wednesday, then,” she murmured against his lips.

Draco nodded as she drew back from his touch and Disapparated from the bedroom, leaving him staring at the empty room.


	3. A Job Well Done

***

Pansy made a mental note to thank Draco more thoroughly that upcoming Wednesday. In a subtle way, he had given her some kind of freedom. Now she could walk out of Borgin and Burkes any time she wanted, without Mr Borgin being able to do as much as glaring at her as she left him alone to tend to the shop.

“I have to go see a potential client for Mr Malfoy,” she informed him simply when the stuffy air of the shop became too much for her, and he just growled something incomprehensible and looked darkly at her, and she could feel his eyes on the back of her head until she was out of the door. But he never stopped her, too afraid that she would have reported his behaviour to Draco probably, and he would have lost a good client. Little did Mr Borgin know that she would have rather lied to Draco than let him know that her boss held such power over her – which was such a stupid thing to think, really, because after all… he was her boss. But she wouldn’t have wanted the young man to fret over her or worse, pity her. Even though she wasn’t completely sure that the young Malfoy could feel any of those feelings anyway.

For now, she was happy to be able to leave the shop every now and then, even though Mr Borgin had kept his promise to hold the money back from her salary and she was struggling to put food in her stomach even once a day now. She could feel her tummy rumbling incessantly and had taken to the habit of chewing on her bottom lip in order to do something with her teeth. The only good thing about it was that her stomach rumbled even when she was with Draco and, despite her initial embarrassment, the young man seemed to have understood that something was wrong and he had started to bring food to the flat in Diagon Alley.

Pansy knew she shouldn’t have gobbled down the juicy fruits, the delicious sweets and those small, fragrant milk rolls that he pushed towards her on the table, but she just couldn’t help it, and now she had another reason to look forward to Wednesdays. The only thing she didn’t like was Draco’s amusement when he looked at her eating. She felt like an attraction in a freak show.  _Come to see the tiniest woman with the biggest appetite!_

The thought of food made Pansy’s stomach rumble even louder than usual and she instinctively brought a hand to it to unsuccessfully try to muffle the noise. In Knockturn Alley, that sound meant that she hadn’t eaten, which implied that she was weaker than usual and that made her an easy target for pickpockets and wizards who wanted to take advantage of her.

She squeezed her wand in her pocket and hurried towards her destination, a small apothecary that sold every kind of concoction and remedy one could desire. She pushed the door open and walked inside, finding herself in the middle of a shop whose walls were covered in shelves full of potions and ingredients. A couple of people were browsing through the poisons stacked in a corner, but apart from them the shop looked empty.

Pansy took a few steps towards the wooden counter and stood on tiptoes to peer in the back of the shop, a shadow moved quickly in the darkness.

“Mr Burke?” she called, her voice echoing through the place. “It’s Miss Parkinson.”

She heard the two people’s hushed voices at her back as they walked towards the counter and queued behind her to pay. She turned to look at them, a tall, thin hag with a disgusting wart on her nose stood next to a younger, prettier witch. The hag had an ampoule that read  _Acromantula Venom_  in her hand and she looked smugly at Pansy when their eyes met. Pansy stepped to the side. “You can go,” she muttered, letting them walk closer to the counter.

“Ah, Mrs Jordan,” greeted Mr Burke, stepping out from the back of the shop. “I’m glad you found what you were looking for.” He looked at the witch with a soft smile on his lips, surely delighting in the knowledge that Acromantula Venom was particularly expensive. “That would be 25 Galleons,” he informed her mellifluously.

The hag grumbled something about it being ridiculously pricey, but she paid without too much delay. She put the ampoule in her handbag and walked out with a dark expression, the younger witch linking arms with her and whispering something in her ear on the way out.

“A lovely woman that is,” murmured Mr Burke when they had walked out, “poor thing has never been too lucky with her good-looks, I’m afraid.”

Pansy nodded slightly. “Can we talk, Mr Burke?” she asked him.

The man looked at her benevolently. “We can talk, I suppose, Miss Parkinson,” he replied calmly. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

Her eyes shifted towards the door that led to the back of the apothecary. “Business,” she replied softly, “can we talk in private?”

Pansy felt his eyes studying her face. She tried to look as professional as she could, but was unsure of how to do it. Nonetheless, she straightened her back and smiled a confident smile, looking straight back into his eyes.

He stepped back and opened the door behind the counter. “This way,” he invited her, his voice low. He let her walk in front of him and she found herself in the back of the shop, a place she had never been before. It was much smaller than the shop itself and infinitesimally smaller than the back of Borgin and Burkes. There was a fireplace on the other side of the room where a potion was simmering in a cauldron, next to it there was a spiral staircase that likely led to Mr Burke’s flat. On Pansy’s right there were two uncomfortable-looking chairs and a table covered in papers and books, while the rest of the room was a string of phials, jars and ampoules filled with ingredients and potions. Pansy was reminded of Snape’s office back at Hogwarts, but Mr Burke seemed less methodical in the way he arranged his shelves.

“Please,” he gestured towards one of the chairs, “sit down, Miss Parkinson.” He sat down himself, his elbows on the table, he brought his long fingers over his mouth and looked attentively at her. “I reckon you are here to try to sell me something,” he stated quietly.

Pansy looked calmly at him, the hint of a smile on her lips. “I would not try to sell you anything if I didn’t know you’d like what I have to offer,” she replied, drawing out the list Draco Malfoy had given her six months earlier. Many items on that list had been crossed-out with a straight line and Pansy always liked to look at that piece of parchment to see how well she was doing. She had already sold more than half of the artefacts, but now work was slowing down, their usual clients had already bought more than once from her and she was not sure what she could do with the rest of the things on the list.

“You still won’t tell me whose items you are selling, won’t you?” he asked, his eyes looking piercingly at her.

Pansy smiled again. “I wish I could, but my client has asked for complete privacy on the matter,” she replied calmly, “but I can assure you that he is a reliable wizard and each and every article I’ve sold from his collection has always met my customers’ expectations.”

Mr Burke smirked. “Apparently, Mr Borgin taught you how to conduct your business well,” he observed. “What do you have, Miss Parkinson, that will entice my attention?”

Pansy took a sharp breath, she wanted to tell him that Mr Borgin hadn’t taught her anything at all, but she couldn’t. Mr Burke was the closest thing her boss had to a friend and it would have done no good to her business to tell him what a horrible person she thought Mr Borgin was. Instead, she looked at the parchment and searched for the three articles that she had underlined for this particular occasion.

“On my client’s list,” she started in her most business-like voice, “I’ve come across an article that I believe a person like yourself, with an activity like yours, would find absolutely indispensable.”

Mr Burke tilted his head, slightly amused.

“My only concern,” continued Pansy, “is that you might already possess such an item, because that could be the only reason for you not to buy it.”

“Well, Miss Parkinson,” he quietly told her, “if you don’t tell me what this object is I don’t think we’ll ever know.”

Pansy smiled quickly. “A cauldron,” she replied.

Mr Burke raised his eyebrows. “Yes, I do have more than one, actually” he stated slowly.

“This is no ordinary cauldron, Mr Burke,” she continued, “it’s cursed. Every single potion that is brewed in there becomes poisonous.”

The old man looked puzzled at her. “And what use would I have of such cursed cauldron?”

She smiled. “The venom will be disguised in any potion, even the most harmless one,” she explained, “I’m sure many of your clients come to ask for a poison, am I correct?”

He nodded, apparently seeming interested in her words.

“And you always have to tell them that whatever potion they’ll administer, the Ministry will be able to trace it, am I correct?” She felt confident, the words came out of her mouth slowly to make sure he followed every single passage of her reasoning.

“Indeed,” he replied.

“And I’m sure many times your clients changed their minds about their purchase,” she reasoned.

He nodded again.

Pansy smiled softly. “With this cauldron you can disguise any harmless potion into a lethal one and nobody will be able to trace the cause of the poisoning.” She brushed her hair from her face. “I’m sure you’d like such an article in your shop.”

Mr Burke looked attentively at her. “It’s certainly one interesting item, Miss Parkinson,” he replied slowly, “but I would surely find it more appealing if I could see how it works before purchasing it.”

Pansy’s face darkened. She couldn’t let him do it, Draco had been painfully clear about that. No article was to be shown before the transaction had taken place. He hadn’t wanted to give her more information, but she had suspected that he himself didn’t know where the articles were.

“I’m sorry, Mr Burke,” she informed him, her voice sincerely embarrassed, “but I have no access to the articles. I’m afraid you will have to wait after your purchase to try it.” She smiled a little. “We offer full refund if the article is not to your liking.” She always said that, even though Draco had not given her permission to offer refunds on anything at all but, to be honest, Draco didn’t know how business was conducted.

Mr Burke took a deep breath, before speaking again. “What else do you have?” he asked finally.

Pansy nodded, trying to keep the disappointment away from her face and her voice. “I know how you like to play Wizard Chess and Mr Borgin keeps saying what a remarkable player you are.”

The wizard raised his eyebrows. “So, either he is lying or you are just flattering me, Miss Parkinson,” he chuckled.

She was flattering him, but he didn’t need to know that. “You decide, Mr Burke,” she replied mellifluously. “In any case I know you enjoy a good game of chess and I think that I have exactly what you might like here.” She glanced at the list to memorise the name of the article and its explanation. “It’s a chess set that will give you more and more control over your adversary every time you take one of their pieces.”

Mr Burke looked interested. “Does it work like an Imperius Curse?”

Pansy nodded. “Yes, but it’s effective only throughout the game,” she explained, “once the game is over you can keep your adversary under your control only if you’ve won the game.” She winked. “But it shouldn’t be too difficult if you can make your opponent move his pieces the way you want.”

Mr Burke smirked and brought his hands to his chin, tapping it slowly with his fingers. “My, my,” he drawled amused, “are these the only articles you have in store for me, Miss Parkinson?”

Pansy bit her bottom lip. It looked like what she thought would have been an easy bargain was actually becoming more difficult than she had expected. Above all, the whole transaction was taking her much more time than she had expected, and she could foresee her salary being lighter by the minute.

“I also have—”

Her words were cut short when Mr Burke heard the front door opening. He stood up with a flutter of his robes and peered through the door that led to the front of the shop. “Will you excuse me, Miss Parkinson,” he said quietly, “I will be back to you in a moment.” He walked to the front and closed the door behind him.

Pansy sighed. Was this going to be an exercise of futility? Had she really come all the way to Mr Burke’s shop just to go back empty handed? He listened to her without interrupting, but in the end he didn’t seem the least interested in what she had to offer to him. She hoped that at least the remaining item would draw his attention.

“I’m sorry, Miss Parkinson,” said Mr Burke, coming back to sit on the chair. “An important client.”

Pansy nodded. “I understand, Mr Burke,” she replied calmly, “as I was saying I have one last item to bring to your attention. I’m sure you might be interested in a silver spoon that changes the taste of what you’re eating at your own pleasure.” She looked at him hopefully.

He looked intently back at her. “Miss Parkinson,” he started, “you are a woman of business like myself, am I right to understand this?”

Pansy narrowed her eyes. Where was he getting at? She had a feeling she knew. “Yes,” she replied, “I like to think that.”

He nodded again, softly. “Well, then, I think you are aware of what I would like to know now.”

Pansy nodded back at him. “They are all extremely valuable articles,” she assured him, “and their value is increased with the charm they have been cast under.”

He cocked his head, looking at her expectantly. “And, Miss Parkinson?” he encouraged her.

Pansy bit her bottom lip. “All three items together, I wouldn’t be able to sell them for less than 300 Galleons,” she finally announced.

Mr Burke shifted on the chair. “I think you are overrating the objects you have in your possession, Miss Parkinson,” he replied slowly. “I don’t see how they could be worth more than 150 Galleons.”

Pansy smiled softly. “My client would be utterly unhappy with my work, Mr Burke, if I were to undersell his precious artefacts,” she purred, “I can’t go lower than 250.”

“Then it looks like we’ve reached an impasse,” he replied, “because I’m afraid I can’t go higher than 175 Galleons.”

Pansy brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. “200 is my last offer, Mr Burke.” And she fervently hoped he would take it.

He seemed to think about it, his dark eyes fixed on Pansy as she looked straight back at him. Finally, after much dwelling upon the matter, he smiled at her. He stretched a hand towards Pansy over the table and waited for her to shake it.

Pansy let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding and shook his hand, finding his grip to be incredibly strong for a man of his age. She couldn’t believe he had just bought all three items, she felt silly now that she understood that he had tried to undermine her confidence only to get a lower price.

“I’m glad we were able to reach an agreement, Miss Parkinson,” he smiled.

Pansy nodded. “I’m sure you’ll find all three articles of your liking, Mr Burke,” she assured him confidently.

“And if not, you will refund me, Miss Parkinson,” he reminded her.

Pansy nodded. She hoped it didn’t come to that. “You will excuse me if I don’t write a receipt for you,” she told him, “and if I ask you to make your payment in Galleons, but my client doesn’t want this business to be traceable.”

Mr Burke tutted. “I do understand,” he let her know, “but I’m sure you understand if I tell you that I am going to need some kind of proof of the transaction. At least, until the items have arrived and I have verified their condition.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr Burke,” she replied softly, “but maybe we can postpone your payment to the day you receive the artefacts?”

Mr Burke smiled, looking rather satisfied with her reply. “You are good at what you do, Miss Parkinson,” he murmured gently, “I can see why you are so appealing to Mr Borgin.” 

Pansy forced a smile. Appealing? He needed her, that was all. And if sometimes he couldn’t keep his wandering hands away from her she was sure that it was because he had been a widower for the past thirty years and didn’t have anybody to share his bed with. “It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Burke,” she let him know, standing up.

He stood as well and stretched a hand to shake hers. “Likewise,” he smiled, before she walked back into the shop and left him there.

***

Week after week, Pansy loved to stare at Draco’s face as he went through the list of artefacts that she had managed to sell. The first few times, his expression had seemed to be too surprised to be flattering, she had felt as if he hadn’t expected her to be  _that_  good at her job. Now, after months of seeing the artefacts in his possession dramatically decreasing in number every time Pansy presented him the list, he seemed more accustomed to her skill and complimented her in a colder way than before, more suitable to a Malfoy and to her as well.

“You are good,” he told her composedly, folding the list and placing it on the table.

Pansy smiled and swallowed the grape she was sucking on, so sweet she wondered where he had been able to find a bunch of grapes in June. “I know,” she replied smugly. “I’m the best mediator you can find in Knockturn Alley.”

Draco smirked at her words. “Why else do you think I’ve asked for your services?” he asked mockingly.

Pansy felt the urge to throw him a grape, but she was against every waste of food ever since she had found herself too poor to afford it. “Then I suppose my job is done here,” she replied, shrugging one shoulder slowly. “I should better go back to Borgin and Burkes.”

Draco snorted. He circled the table and came to a halt behind Pansy. She could feel his hands on her shoulders as he bent down to whisper in her ear, “You’re funny, Miss Parkinson.” He kissed the shell of her ear, brushing away her hair with his white fingers. “So funny, I could just kiss you until you have no more jokes to tell.”

Pansy felt his warm breath against her neck and shuddered. She was sensitive there and he knew it so very well, never missing an opportunity to suck on her skin until her fingers went numb and she went limp in his arms.

“Clothes,” she breathed as he tilted her head with his hand.

Draco snorted against her skin, making her shiver even more. “I don’t care,” he replied curtly.

She pushed him away. “You never do,” she told him lightly, stuffing the remaining grapes that had rolled around the table into her mouth.

Draco growled as he went to lean against the cabinets of the kitchen. “Well then, Pansy,” he snorted annoyed, crossing his arms, “get naked quickly or either I’ll vanish your clothes.”

Pansy turned to look at him, a self-satisfied smile on her lips as she heard the urgency in his voice. “You don’t have any more of those grapes?” she asked slowly.

Draco looked at her with something that Pansy was amused to see was close to irritation. “Are you here for me, for the food or for the job?” he asked her suspiciously.

Pansy stood up from the chair and stepped towards him with a soft smile tugging the corners her lips. “All three,” she replied sweetly, “maybe not in that order.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Pansy,” he warned her as she came closer to him.

“What?” she asked, faking naïveté. “I thought you asked for my services as a mediator.”

Draco snorted. “And I thought we had to be quick because you have to work this afternoon,” he reminded her.

Pansy looked away, gritting her teeth. She certainly didn’t need to be reminded of work from Draco, the man who never worked a single day in his life. But after all he was quite right and she hated that. She couldn’t be away for too long, otherwise Mr Borgin would start to tell her that she owned him money for her prolonged absences. 

She bit her bottom lip than started to undo the buttons of her shirt. She looked at him and smiled and noticed that his eyes had hooded with lust at the thought of what awaited them. Week after week, he didn’t seem to get tired of her and she relished in the sensation of being appreciated by him.

“Shall I help you?” he asked, his voice husky.

Pansy shook her head, hurrying to get undressed. The last time he had tried to help her, he couldn’t control himself: instead of undressing her, he had pushed her down on the table, raised her skirt, moved her knickers aside and thrust into her from behind without notice. She found out that she couldn’t control herself either, but when he had detached himself from her, she was more than annoyed for the fact that her skirt was all wrinkled and her shirt was covered in sweaty patches.

“Instead of looking at me,” she scoffed, unhooking her bra, “you should get undressed yourself.”

Draco smirked smugly. “I don’t need to.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, the thought of hexing the buttons of his trousers so that he would never be able to take his erection out crossed her mind. He said that he didn’t need to get undressed anyway, he wouldn’t have minded. He would have come in his pants and gone back home like that.

Thinking of a place where there were no Scouring Charms, Pansy indulged in the thought of Draco walking into the Manor with a visible stain on his groin. She smiled without even noticing at the thought of Astoria fuming over her husband’s visible proof of his infidelity.

“Why are you smiling?” asked Draco and Pansy sucked in her breath as she felt his voice coming from so close to where she was standing. She raised her eyes to meet his and found that he was only inches from her.

She shook her head as he slid his hands down her body. “Just a silly thought,” she replied softly.

He nodded and, grabbing her tiny waist, he raised her from the floor. She stretched her hands around his neck and hugged him tightly, her legs mirroring their movement as they hooked around his waist and she pressed herself against him.

“Do you want to do it standing up?” she asked, her cheek pressed against his as she felt his hands fumbling with the buttons of his trousers between her legs.

“No,” replied Draco, his voice a lusty growl. “I had a cramp last time.”

Pansy giggled softly in his ear. She remembered. He had cried out that time and it was definitely not because of his orgasm. He stepped towards the chair where she had been sitting while she had eaten the grapes and sat down, his legs parting slightly as he pushed her thighs apart.

Pansy smiled softly. She placed her toes on the floor and pushed herself up, grabbing Draco’s shoulders with her hands to help herself. He took his erection out of his trousers and guided it towards her. She lowered herself a bit on it but when he tried to thrust upwards, she moved away, chuckling.

“Don’t tease, Pansy,” he groaned, his free hand going to her waist to push her down. She let him. She liked to tease him, to make him want her, but she had no time for games.

She let out a puff of air when he pushed all the way into her, her fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, the muscles of her legs tensing up. She wasn’t completely wet. When he was fully buried into her he didn’t move, not for a moment that to Pansy seemed uncharacteristically long. She looked at his face and saw that he was looking back at her with something more than lust in his eyes. She couldn’t quite understand what it was, but when he leaned closer to her and kissed her, she knew it couldn’t be anything bad.

“I…” he started to say against her lips, but his words trailed away as she twisted her hips tentatively, enticing a groan from Draco. He let her mouth go and grabbed her hips with both hands. “Do that again,” he breathed, guiding her in a direction that he seemed to like.

Instead of rising and lowering on top of him, she found herself rolling her lower body back and forth. Sliding her clit against the base of his erection, she felt a rush of pleasure spreading from her lower abdomen. She started to move more furiously, her back bumping into the kitchen table and her breasts pushing against Draco’s chest with every movement.

She was the first one to come, her movements slowing down and her eyes closing as her walls contracted around his erection. She felt Draco nearing his own release when he tilted his head back and hugged her tightly, knocking the air out of her lungs. He pulled her down towards him and pushed himself up to be sheathed into her until it was almost uncomfortable. It was only when his head stumbled upon her breast that she felt him coming into her, the muscles of his buttocks contracting to push up against her. He stifled his cry against her nipple, sucking hard on it.

They didn’t move for a long moment. Pansy’s head leaned on Draco’s, and she stroked his hair gently as she came down from her peak. She could feel his hot and ragged breath against her chest and she liked it. She was sweaty and hot and when he slowly released her from his embrace she found it difficult to stand up on her unsteady legs.

She raised her hips, standing on tiptoes, but only slid on the smooth floor and fell back into Draco’s lap, the table scratching at her back.

Draco smirked. “It looks like you don’t want to go,” he whispered, his hands going once again to her waist as he pulled her to him. “Fine by me,” he continued, trailing kisses on her jaw.

Pansy smiled under his touch. “I’d stay forever if I could,” she whispered back to him. She grasped his shoulders and helped herself up, leaving him to tuck his limp member back into his trousers.

She heard him charm himself clean and stand up behind her as she buttoned up her shirt. He reached her and hugged her from behind, his arms joining on her belly, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder. “I’ll miss you,” he whispered.

Pansy raised an arm to stroke his neck. “You always do, Draco,” she reminded him softly.

“And you never do, Pansy,” he breathed into her ear.

Pansy turned her head to look at him, a puzzled expression on her face. “Who says that?” she asked.

“You,” he whispered as if he didn’t feel comfortable talking about these things out loud. “You never say it.”

Pansy smiled. “There’s no use in saying it,” she told him.

“But I want to know,” he protested, his voice urgent, his arms tightening around her.

Pansy placed a soft kiss on his cheek and wiggled herself free from his embrace, she turned to look at him. “If I didn’t miss you I wouldn’t come back every Wednesday now, would I?” And as she observed Draco’s expression coming to the realisation that she wouldn’t have said anything more affectionate than that, she Disapparated without saying goodbye, the conversation having taken a far too sentimental turn for her liking.

***

Draco was unsure if the way he walked into the Manor every Wednesday evening was different from the other days or if, somehow, his mother and his wife had started to realise that he didn’t only go to London to see Mr Bolden, but dinner on Wednesday evening was even more uncomfortable than the other days for him.

Astoria and Narcissa took turns to remark bitterly about how useless it was for him to go to London every single week. They relentlessly asked where he was staying and what he was doing for so long in the city, why didn’t he want anybody to accompany him and what else did he have to do there that was so secretive?

So, Wednesday evenings usually ended up with Draco storming out of the dining room in the middle of the meal and with Narcissa raising her voice to order him back to the table. His father usually didn’t even raise his eyes from the food, and Astoria fumed silently as he knew she sensed something.

And every Wednesday night, after the stormy dinner had ended, Lucius came to visit Draco in his study to get some information on the state of the artefacts. He sat opposite to his son and looked expectantly at him.

“I’m confident your mediator has had another successful week,” he said to Draco, tapping his fingers on his cane. “She is quite skilled at what she does.”

Draco took a sharp breath. His father was the only one to whom he had talked about Pansy’s job. Lucius too had marvelled at how fast she had managed to sell their problematic articles, and Draco had felt just what Pansy must have felt when he saw his surprised face.

He handed him the list with the artefacts. “She was very good,” replied Draco softly, “as always.” He looked away from his father as he studied the list.

Lucius nodded. “Yes,” he breathed out, “finally some good news.”

“Why?” asked Draco, raising his eyes to study his father’s face. “Something happened?”

Lucius folded the list and gave it back to Draco, waiting for him to put it away in a small drawer under the desk. “I’ve received a notice from the Ministry,” he informed him, “there’ll be a raid in two weeks.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “They sent a notice?” he asked. “How considerate of them.”

Lucius smirked softly. “Apparently we are no longer considered dangerous by the Ministry,” he let him know, “until the next time someone offers them information about us.”

Draco shifted on the chair. “I suppose we have nothing to worry about from a raid, do we?” he asked calmly.

“As long as they only visit the Manor,” he replied evenly, “and not our other proprieties.”

Draco nodded distractedly. Other proprieties included a castle in the Highlands, a property in the North of England and a building in Diagon Alley. But the castle had been empty for ages now and Draco couldn’t even remember the last time he had been there, whilst he had never even seen the property in the north of England. The building in Diagon Alley was used on their family journeys to the city. As far as Draco remembered, though, there was nothing dodgy in those places, nothing at least that would have caused the Ministry to accuse them of using the Dark Arts.

And to Draco’s knowledge there was also one other place that an in-depth inquiry would have discovered as registered under his name, but nobody, not even his father, was aware of the existence of the flat where he spent his Wednesday afternoons alone with Pansy. 

He tilted his head and looked at his father seriously. “Have you been using one of our residences as a depository for those artefacts?” he asked gravely.

Lucius smiled enigmatically. “You can search every place you are aware of and see for yourself that I haven’t,” he replied.

Draco looked at him icily. His father always managed to stir something in his guts. Anger usually, but a different kind of anger from what he felt when he had endless fights with the two women that lived in the Manor. With his father it was a vibrating, slow-growing kind of fury that rarely reached the surface and became a real altercation. Sometimes, like in this particular situation, he didn’t even know why he was angry with him, but he felt that he was withholding some kind of important information from him and that made him furious. 

“How many artefacts are still to be sold?” Lucius asked, snapping Draco out of his thoughts.

Draco looked at him. “A hundred and twenty-four,” he replied softly.

“And how many has she sold already?”

“Five hundred and forty,” replied Draco. Five hundred and forty items sold in slightly more than a year. He had started to panic a few months before, because she was too fast. He felt that instead of being happy at how efficiently she was conducting his business, he was worrying for the fact that soon he wouldn’t have had any more excuses to meet her.

Lucius stood up from the armchair. “Remarkable,” he murmured, and once again Draco felt a hint of anger towards his father. He had never complimented him in such a way as he did with Pansy. He shook his head forcefully, he didn’t like it when he complimented her and he didn’t like when he failed to compliment her. He probably just didn’t like the thought of his father thinking about her.

“Send young Pansy my regards, Draco,” added Lucius, walking towards the door. “I believe I would love to see her again one day.” And with that, he closed the door at his back, leaving Draco alone in his study.

***

Draco’s back was leaning against the soft back of the armchair. His eyes were closed as he soaked in the last rays of sun coming from the tall window of the drawing room. It was Tuesday evening and the moment he preferred out of the whole week, almost more than Wednesday itself. Wednesdays went by so quickly that they left him clinging for more, but Tuesdays… they passed so teasingly slow and he delighted in the thought of what awaited him the next day.

Draco took a deep breath and it echoed in the silence of the drawing room. Astoria and his mother were getting ready for dinner and his father was still in his study, going over some papers the Ministry had left him with.

The day of the raid had come and gone before Draco could almost notice the intrusion of the Ministry employees in his house. He was relieved to have been spared the presence of Potter and Weasley amongst those Aurors who had sat down with his father and questioned him for a few minutes before taking a quick tour of the Manor. They hadn’t found anything noteworthy, and they had apologised for the intrusion, and suddenly Draco had felt that the job he had asked of Pansy was just a great exercise of futility. But he was grateful that he had asked her before he could realise that.

The door of the drawing room opened behind Draco and the young man rolled his eyes behind his eyelids. It was still too early for dinner, so whoever it was, he or she was not there to walk with him into the dining room.

“Draco,” called a cold voice above him.

Draco tried to ignore it, hoping it would go away. Hoping his mother wouldn’t call him again.

“Draco,” her icy voice reached his ears once again, this time more forcefully. “We need to talk.”

He heard her silk robes flutter around her and against his knees as she sat across from him, and when he opened his eyes he was unsurprised to find Narcissa staring at him.

“Isn’t it too early for our talk, Mother?” he asked emotionlessly. “Don’t we usually wait until dinner to argue?”

Narcissa gave him a cold smile. “I wanted to talk to you alone,” she replied.

Draco groaned as silently as he could. He hated talking to her alone even more than when they quarrelled at the dinner table. “What is it?” he asked, trying to sound as detached as possible.

Narcissa raised her chin high. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to go to London tomorrow,” she said haughtily.

Draco frowned slightly, pondering if she was serious or not. She looked serious, but he cracked a smile anyway. “The times in which you could tell me what to do are well behind us, Mother.”

“We are expecting guests, Draco,” she told him sternly. “And you should be here to welcome them.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Guests?” he asked. He didn’t know anything about any guests coming to the Manor. Why had he not been informed?

“Your sister-in-law,” replied Narcissa, “with her family.” She looked at him as if she knew that he couldn’t have refused.

“Daphne,” murmured Draco.

“And her family,” Narcissa reminded him.

“The baby?” asked Draco, knowing the answer.

“The baby,” she assured him.

Draco shifted uncomfortably on the armchair. He didn’t like it when Daphne was at the Manor, she aroused Astoria’s resentment towards the fact that their marriage was still sterile, and he could barely stand her as she was.

“I’m sure they won’t mind if I’m away for the day,” he grunted, now more than ever wanting to get away from them, “I don’t suppose they’ll stay for only one day and I will be back in the evening to see them.”

“Draco,” Narcissa warned him, her voice low with rage. “You will not go to London tomorrow.”

Draco clenched his jaw, his hands closing into fists on the armrests. “You probably don’t understand, Mother, that you can’t forbid me to go,” he hissed.

“And you don’t understand that I very well can,” she replied coldly. She looked at him with an unyielding expression and when she spoke again her voice was low and dangerous like the growl of a wild animal. “You really think we don’t know what’s going on, don’t you?” she asked him, her eyes piercing through his skull. “You think we don’t know who you’re seeing? You think we don’t know what you’re doing?”

Draco swallowed only to find his mouth dry. All that time and he had convinced himself that his secret was well kept, that nobody would have ever known of his affair with Pansy. All that time and he had been so wrong. He wondered how she had come to know it. She had said ‘we’, Astoria was surely part of this. But how had the two women come to know of it? Draco thought of his father and how, even though he had never told him what his activities actually were when he met Pansy, he was the only person that knew about their meetings. Draco was torn about the issue of whom he hated more at that moment.

“Whatever I do,” he hissed, “it’s none of your business.”

Narcissa looked at him coldly. “Oh, but I think it is when my family honour is at stake.”

Draco snorted loudly. He stood up to get closer to her, bending in front of his mother he brought his lips near her ear. “Father has had so many sluts, I think he himself has lost count,” he whispered, “and not once have I heard you give voice to your disapproval as vehemently as you do with me.” He wasn’t lying. She had never once spoken against his father’s many affairs, not in front of Draco at least. She had contributed to the untimely deaths of a couple of those young ladies though.

Narcissa tilted her head so that now her lips were caressing Draco’s ear. “I know,” she replied, her breath warm, her voice ice cold, “but your father has never been in love with any of them.”

***

Draco was torn. He was torn during dinner, he was torn as he wrote to Pansy, he was torn even after he had sent the letter via owl and he was still torn now that he was sitting in bed, his back against the headboard.

Pansy had to excuse him, but he couldn’t be in London the following day. A problem had arisen, his presence was needed at the Manor. He didn’t tell her that his mother knew and that she was warning him against seeing her again. He didn’t want her to know how much power Narcissa still held over him. Letting her know would have meant admitting it to himself.

No. When he had written the letter he had convinced himself that he was doing it to prove to his mother that she was not right. He was not in love with Pansy. He could have very well skipped a Wednesday in her company if that was all it took to show her. He wasn’t sure, though, that that would have been enough, and at that moment, the prospect of not seeing Pansy for another week made him feel angry and unhappy.

Astoria walked into the bedroom. Her lean figure wrapped in an expensive nightgown that he remembered she had bought in Paris during their honeymoon. She was smearing a particularly sweet smelling cream on her hands, her dark hair fell on her shoulders in tidy curls and her full, red lips were puckered in a thoughtful way, as if she were trying to suppress a smile.

“Are you glad your sister is coming tomorrow?” asked Draco in a hiss. He knew that Daphne liked to invite herself to the Manor without much notice, but he was sure that Astoria had had something to do with it.

“Shouldn’t I?” she chirped, getting into bed and sitting down next to her husband.

Draco didn’t reply, he crossed his arms on his chest and waited for her to slide under the covers before flicking his wand lazily and turning off the lights.

“She will bring the baby,” he reminded her heatedly, as if it was her fault.

Astoria looked at him through cold eyes that shone in the darkness. “Yes,” she replied lightly, “it’s her son.”

“You like him, don’t you?” he asked softly, curiosity in his voice rather than anger now.

Astoria turned her head away from Draco. “I’d like him more if he were mine,” she hissed coldly. “Every time I hear from Daphne I’m always afraid she’ll say that she is pregnant again.”

Draco snorted and turned, giving her his back. He felt her shift on the bed and her hand tentatively touch his waist, but he shook her away. He could almost hear her teeth gritting in rage and when she spoke her voice was a dangerously low snarl. “I’m glad you are not going to London tomorrow.”

***

Pansy liked to sell much more than she liked to buy. The very thought that clients could come into Borgin and Burkes with the idea of buying a specific artefact and leave with at least another two in their bags was almost exhilarating for her. She liked to feel the power of her persuasion as she talked them into buying more and more items. And she liked the expression on Mr Borgin’s face when she did: surprised and satisfied.

“You’re good, girl,” he muttered to her every time she had concluded an advantageous deal.

She never replied to him, she just sat back on the stool next to the old man and waited for the next customer to walk through the front door, her hands fidgeting in her lap until she drew blood around her nails.

“Will you stop?” asked Mr Borgin, clutching her wrist with his greasy hand. “I’m trying to work here.”

She nodded slightly, her hand trying to worm its way to freedom. He didn’t let her go though. His head was still bowed on the papers that he was examining, receipts that Pansy had filled in during the past weeks, but his digits were firmly grasping her wrist, his thumb drawing circles on her warm skin. She fisted her skirt in her fingers and tensed up under the unwanted touch, her eyes looking at his face in disgust as she noticed that he was wearing a small, smug smile on his lips.

“You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” he whispered, still not looking at her. “Just the kind of girl I need.”

“I like to sell,” she replied, jerking her hand away and finally getting free from him. “That’s all.”

Mr Borgin looked at her severely, and Pansy was relieved when she heard the door opening. She jumped up from the stool as if it were on fire and stepped away from Mr Borgin and towards the client.

It was a woman, a tall, dark-skinned woman who looked younger than what her age most certainly was and more beautiful than most women Pansy had ever seen. She had high cheekbones and wore a flirty expression on her face.

“Mr Borgin,” she greeted the man, walking to the counter with brisk steps. “Pansy,” she added, flashing Pansy a fascinating smile.

“Mrs Zabini,” murmured Pansy, she always felt uneasy around that witch.

“Mrs Zabini,” drawled Mr Borgin in his most oily voice, “how can we help you today?”

The witch smiled again, a smile that – Pansy knew very well – had caused many wizards to lose their heads for her, some literally. Mr Borgin himself seemed to be in awe of Mrs Zabini’s beauty, his lusty eyes shining in the dimly lit shop.

“I am looking for a certain  _something_  to take care of a problem I have,” she informed him sweetly.

“Yes,” replied Mr Borgin gently, stepping in front of Pansy to serve the witch. “You came to the right place.” He grinned at her in the stupidest way Pansy had ever seen him do and then proceeded to show her some items from the darkest and most dangerous section of the shop.

Pansy sat back on the stool. Mr Borgin stood up only for the most important customers and for the beautiful women who had a Veela-like power over him. She knew that he would not be able to sell her more than an item and that she would bargain her way to a meagre price. Instead, Pansy wouldn’t have let Mrs Zabini get away without having paid full price, but when he decided to serve a client, there was no way he would let her take control of the transaction.

Mrs Zabini was talking in hushed tones, but Pansy managed to understand something about her ‘newest husband’ and how she would need something ‘that the Ministry couldn’t trace back to her’. Apparently, she had to keep changing the tactic she used to kill off her consorts, but Pansy was sure that she wouldn’t have risked a day in Azkaban even if she was caught poisoning one of them. Her good-looks and charm would have made every Auror change their mind about her. She was no prison material.

Pansy leaned her head on her hand and fervently hoped for another client. She was getting bored and she hated it, the time passed even more slowly than usual when she had nothing to do in the shop.

It was only when the door opened again that she finally sighed in relief. Another client and this time it was all hers. She looked up with a broad smile upon her face and focused on a hooded figure walking towards her.

“Parkinson,” called a deep, amused voice from under a hood. “Nice to see you.”

Pansy’s smile became less calculated and more natural. “Blaise,” she greeted him. “Here to collect your mother?”

Blaise nodded, taking off his hood. “I see she is busy,” he replied, glancing towards her and Mr Borgin. “I suppose she is looking for something different this time.” He winked at Pansy.

“Are  _you_  looking for something, Blaise?” purred Pansy gently. “Maybe a deadly piece of jewellery for an unwanted lover?” Suddenly, she remembered his half-confession at Draco’s wedding and felt slightly bad at suggesting Millicent’s death.

Blaise smiled softly at her. “I’m not going to keep up the tradition,” he replied in a murmur. “I came to see you actually,” he continued, “just checking on how you were doing.”

Pansy smiled coldly. She knew Blaise too well to fool herself into believing that he was there to see if she was fine at Borgin and Burkes. He probably just wanted to see if she were still doing worse than himself and rejoice in the knowledge that her situation had not changed. “Brilliant,” she replied through gritted teeth. “Never been better.”

Blaise nodded. “Me too.” She felt the urge in his voice to tell her everything about himself, but she was grateful that Mrs Zabini was returning to the counter along with Mr Borgin. A box in her hands.

Mr Borgin nodded at Blaise and set to tap on the register with his long fingers. As Pansy had suspected, there was no item in the shop that could have been sold for less than 30 Galleons, and yet the witch was giving him less than ten gold coins. She felt the urge to roll her eyes and shake her head, but resisted it.

“Thank you, Mr Borgin,” purred Mrs Zabini, “you are always so very helpful.”

Mr Borgin beamed at her, while Blaise and Pansy exchanged a bored look. Pansy smiled softly at her former classmate, it was nice to see some faces she recognised from time to time, as long as they didn’t enquire about her private life, naturally.

“Shall we go, Mother?” asked Blaise finally.

Mrs Zabini smiled at her son. “Of course, Blaise,” she replied sweetly, “let’s go. I need to buy some new clothes for my trip to Paris.”

Blaise winked at Pansy and turned with his mother linked to his arm. They walked out of the shop and Pansy heard them laugh at something when they stepped outside.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed Mr Borgin.

Pansy turned to find him staring at the money in his hands.

“How did I sell a set of cursed cufflinks for eight Galleons?”

Pansy bit her bottom lip to restrain a smirk, but a soft chuckle escaped her lips. Mr Borgin glared at her. “Next time you do your job,” he growled, “where were you while I was serving her?”

Pansy sighed. There was no way she was going to win this argument and she knew it. She decided to sit again, look straight ahead of her and wait for the river of words that would flood her ears. And she would be cursing Draco’s name for she could have been somewhere else that Wednesday afternoon.

***

With time and patience, Draco had learned how to hate Daphne.

He didn’t use to hate her back at Hogwarts. She was fine, she was friends with Pansy and he didn’t have to talk to her too much anyway. But now, Draco dreaded every single moment he had to spend with her and her Scottish husband and their noisy and spoilt child.

Most of all, he hated to find himself left alone with Daphne. She always seemed to have some precious advice to give him, advice that Draco could certainly do quite well without. Mostly, she talked about fertilisation spells and potions to enhance his manliness and since Draco was sure that Astoria had told her the cause of their childless marriage, he found her words incredibly irritating. The fact that she looked at him with her angelic face while she talked made her scornful words even more frustrating.

“Don’t tell Astoria,” she whispered quite unnecessary one evening when they were the only two people left in the drawing room, “but I might be pregnant.”

Draco closed his eyes. He could already feel Astoria’s anger. He had found it amusing at first to see his wife angry and frustrated, now it only irritated him further.

“Great news,” he hissed in his most sarcastic way.

Daphne nodded, a smile curving her full lips. “I know, right?” she asked, obviously deciding to ignore his tone. “I was wondering when my children would have had a cousin, though.”

Draco took a deep breath before replying to her. “I don’t know,” he replied coldly, “does your husband have any siblings at all?”

Daphne laughed without mirth. “Who are you saving yourself for, Draco?” she asked sweetly. “You certainly wouldn’t want someone other than Astoria to carry your child, would you?”

The young man puckered his lips. “Surely not,” he replied. “She is being a perfect wife so far.”

Daphne seemed pleased to hear that. “Then why not reward her, Draco?” she purred. “I’m sure you would find it much less straining if she were happy instead of in a state of constant sorrow.”

Draco smirked. “But then she wouldn’t be any fun,” he hissed and the words came out a bit too evilly even for his liking.

“Oh, but Draco,” hummed Daphne, her voice dripping sweetness like a spoonful of honey, “I thought you had other ways to have fun.” She checked her watch and stood up. “But it’s late, my dear brother-in-law, and I shall be in bed. Especially if I’m carrying another heir to my husband’s fortune.”

Draco gripped her wrist as she walked by. “Be careful, dear sister-in-law,” he growled, his voice low, “because the more children you’ll have the less fortune each one will get.”

She glared at him and freed herself from his hand and walked away, her steps fading in the hallway and up the stairs. Draco looked as the fire died out in the fireplace and thought of Pansy, of children and of family until it was too late to think and he dragged his feet up to his bed, collapsing next to his sleeping wife.


	4. A Dreadful Proposal

***

Days became weeks and weeks turned into months, finally months became years and Pansy never left Borgin and Burkes. She had struggled so much to attempt to find another place to work that she just couldn’t try anymore, dejection overtook her every time she received a negative reply.

She was stuck in a job that she didn’t like, even though she was good at what she did. She brought money to Mr Borgin and he never shared it with her, her meagre salary was barely enough to cover her expenses.

She still met with Draco every Wednesday, and after that time two years before when he had to call off their weekly encounter due to reasons that he hadn’t fully explained to her yet, he had never missed an afternoon again. He brought her food and she ate it, and their lust didn’t spare any surface in the flat. But sometimes, not often, they just sat and talked, sometimes they quarrelled, sometimes they didn’t say anything and just lay down one next to the other. Pansy hated and loved those times. Moments that had the feeling of temporary happiness, ready to wither the moment she Disapparated.

Draco told her everything about his life, his constant fighting with his wife and mother, his business and his relationship with his father. Pansy never told him anything. She never let him know when she couldn’t make ends meet, she never said a word about Mr Borgin’s caresses, and she never told him how unhappy she was. And she was glad that he never thought about asking her.

Their Wednesday afternoons in the flat that he had bought in London were the only moments when they had a taste of happiness. And they would have both gone to great lengths to preserve those moments. Pansy had sold most of the artefacts two years earlier and before she could sell the last few ones he had told her to stop searching for potential buyers. Those few items that remained in Draco’s possession were the only excuse that Pansy could use to disappear from the shop every week, and the only pretext that Draco could find to go to London until his father gave him something else to do.

Pansy hated it. She hated that, after five years at Borgin and Burkes, she couldn’t take a few hours off work without having to make up an excuse. On the other hand, with time, Mr Borgin had become more and more difficult towards her, showing his concern every time she went out, even if it was for errands that she had been asked to run by him. She had stopped visiting clients for Draco and he had seemed relieved about that, but still he kept her in the shop as long as he could and was always in a bad mood when Wednesday arrived. To Pansy’s delight though, he never talked a lot on those days.

But on any other day, Mr Borgin would speak just as much as usual, spluttering sentences and telling her to smile and sit straight and smooth her skirt. Pansy didn’t like it.

Just like she didn’t like it that day. It was Monday and Mr Borgin loved Mondays, the first day of the week, the day with most clients. The day when he saw Pansy again after Sunday – when they were closed.

Pansy opened the door of the shop and walked inside, and to her surprise, she found Mr Borgin sitting at the counter. The moment she saw him she stopped, her heart heavy. She usually enjoyed those moments before he came down from his flat over Borgin and Burkes, listening to her own breath in the silence of the shop.

The old man stared at her with his beetle-like eyes, he looked different from most days, he seemed almost nervous, something that Pansy could say with certainty she had never seen him look. She put on a small smile and walked towards the counter.

“Morning, Mr Borgin,” she murmured, walking past him and into the back where she hung her jacket.

“Good morning, Pansy,” he replied quietly and Pansy frowned at the simple greeting. He never usually called her Pansy – she hadn’t even been sure that he knew her name until that very moment – and he never greeted her with more than a cross murmur. She glanced at the back of his head and felt a weird, uncomfortable feeling running through her veins.

His caresses and touches had become more insistent every week that passed, his fingers ghosting on her hip as he showed her how to do something, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered instructions to her. She usually grimaced as her stomach churned at the unwanted contact.

She walked back into the front of the shop and sat down on her stool. She usually tried to pry the seat away from him, but that day he looked particularly aware of her movements. She straightened her shoulders, the way he liked her to do, and opened a drawer in front of her. He had assigned her a drawer under his counter, a small, smelly drawer, but a place where she could put her essentials while at work. Her essentials were usually a book and food, when she had some with her. She drew out a small book, on the cover it read  _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_. She opened it on the Black family tree and started to study it attentively. So far, she could recognise no name in the book that she could link to her family and, not surprisingly, the Parkinsons were far from being mentioned.

“Are you eating enough these days?”

Pansy’s head turned slowly towards that of her boss. He was gaping at her expectantly, a forced smile on his face. She swallowed and looked warily back at him. “I suppose,” she replied slowly, not really understanding why all of a sudden he was interested in her wellbeing. She just knew it was not out of his good heart.

“You look so emaciated,” he continued, his tone not really that of concern as he said those things to her.

Pansy raised her eyebrows and looked at him with contempt. “Well thank you, Mr Borgin,” she muttered darkly.

To her surprise, he shook his head quickly. “No, no, my dear girl,” he coaxed, his voice too sweet to be real, “I meant that you look like you could do with more food.”

Pansy lowered her eyes. She was really confused now. What was he getting at? She didn’t know, but his behaviour was slightly creeping her out. She tried to convince herself that maybe he just felt uncomfortable because, for the first time in five years, he was about to offer her a raise. She bit her bottom lip to restrain a smile. “I probably could,” she whined in her most miserable tone. “I just…” Her words trailed away dramatically.

“What?” asked Mr Borgin urgently.

Pansy looked up at him, her eyes huge and shiny. She contemplated crying for a few more Galleons a month, but that was not her. She would rather starve to death than cry to beg for a raise. Plus she hadn’t cried in years, she probably didn’t even remember anymore how to do it. “I just… sometimes… can’t get through the month.” She sighed. “With what I earn, I mean.”

Mr Borgin cocked his head and a gentle smile appeared on his lips. He reached for her hand and grabbed it, patting it softly with one of his greasy palms while he squeezed it with the other. Pansy didn’t shy away, for once she endured his groping fingers and his repulsive proximity. “There, there,” he comforted her softly, “no need to sound so despairing.” He came closer to her and Pansy swallowed, she felt her heart beating furiously in her chest as she waited impatiently to hear the words she wanted to hear. “You know, Pansy,” he continued instead, his breath tickling her face, “you are such a good shop assistant.”

She tried to give a hint of a smile, but her shock at his compliment was keeping her lips parted in a surprised expression.

“You are such a blessing for my shop,” he went on in his sweet voice, “profit has never been higher ever since you arrived.” He stretched a greasy hand to pull a lock of her raven-black hair behind her ear and she didn’t draw back. “You are all I could have desired for my business—for  _me_.”

Pansy swallowed again, she didn’t like the turn this conversation was taking. This time she tried to free her hand from his, but to no avail, because his fingers were squeezing her now and she would have had to pull away too forcefully to be subtle.

He sighed and smiled a weary smiled. “I’m old, Pansy,” he murmured, “old and heirless.” He started to massage her hand between his two. “My first two wives have left me with no spawn of my own and now I have a little fortune that will go astray when I die.”

Pansy clenched her jaw. Her ears buzzed.  _Please, talk about the will,_  she started to repeat in her head.  _Please, talk about the will._  She just wanted to be told that he had nominated her his only heir. She could already see her selling the shop and leaving Knockturn Alley for good as soon as the old wizard was in his coffin. Probably she could visit a certain dark-skinned witch for advice on how to make that happen quickly.

“And you are young,” he continued, his tongue wetting his lips as he spoke, “and probably want a family, and children…” He studied her, one of his hands going to trace her jaw line. Her muscles jolted under the skin and she felt absolutely petrified in the anticipation of what was coming.

Mr Borgin smiled again, now a bit of his usual malice was back on his face. He came even closer to her and Pansy looked in his dark eyes with concern. “We could help each other out,” he purred, his voice low and raspy, “we could come to an agreement.”

Pansy still wanted to believe that he was talking about leaving her his small fortune. She wanted to think that he was concerned about her future, that five years working for him had changed his attitude towards her. She didn’t want to think anything else.

“I could make you a respectable woman,” he finally told her, smirking. “I could  _marry_  you.” His voice had dropped to a whisper, as if he found the thought of marriage not suitable for a conversation.

Pansy drew her hand back so abruptly that she startled both herself and Mr Borgin. She tried to stand up and step back but only ended up tripping over the stool and falling on the floor. But she didn’t let the pain that shot from her coccyx up to her spine slow her down as she gripped the counter with a hand and stood up. Her eyes were still on Mr Borgin, the man looked at her with an almost amused expression, as if he had expected her reaction.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she hissed, and her voice let out all her disappointment and disgust. “I don’t think I would be a good wife for you.”

Mr Borgin smirked and when he spoke his voice was back to his normal cold one. “I could make a good wife out of you.”

Pansy shook her head softly, her eyes still wide and staring at him. “No,” she murmured, “no, you couldn’t.”

“Yes, my dear girl,” he replied his voice vibrant.

Pansy smirked softly. “Let me rephrase that,” she corrected herself, “I don’t want to.”

Mr Borgin looked unfazed by her reply. “Maybe you want to think about it, girl,” he continued calmly. “Think carefully. You will have money.”

Pansy shook her head, her eyes troubled at the offer. “No,” she repeated her voice quivering a little, she swallowed and gritted her teeth, trying to seem calmer than what she actually was. “I don’t need it.” She wanted to tell him that she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life with him, that she hated him and that she just wanted to get out of that shop and never to come back. But again, she couldn’t give vent to her feelings. She needed the job, she needed the money, she needed to swallow her anger and pretend nothing had happened. “I don’t want you,” she whispered against her will.

Mr Borgin wetted his lips again, probably amused at her discomfort. “Oh, my dear, little girl,” he smirked, “but I don’t want you either.” Somehow though, she didn’t believe him. “I want you to have my children and teach them how to conduct my business, like I taught you.”

Pansy’s nostrils flared. He hadn’t taught her anything at all, and the very thought of having children with him disgusted her to her bones. “You wouldn’t be pleased with me, Mr Borgin,” she hissed.

“You let me worry about that, girl,” he replied nastily. “I have no hurry for now, I can wait for you.” He smirked and stretched a hand to collect a piece of parchment, a feather and an ink bottle, then bent down again. Paying her no attention whatsoever, he started writing.

Pansy closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, her hands closing into fists. That was the last time she let her imagination run wild. There was no pay raise for her in the future, and her name was not in his will, she had just deluded herself and now that she was back to reality, the thought hurt her incredibly.

If Pansy Parkinson had known how to cry she would have shed tears of anger.

***

Draco’s hands reached up to squeeze Pansy’s small breasts, and she stiffened in his touch, slowing down her bouncing on his erection. She grabbed his arms and closed her eyes, gritting her teeth to stifle a moan. He pinched hard on her nipples and she curled her toes at the sensation. She was completely still now and Draco was doing all the work, thrusting into her as she ground her thighs around his waist and tried to make as much contact with him as possible.

He came with a guttural cry, his erection pulsing in Pansy’s tight entrance. She felt his hands relenting their assault on her breasts and opened her eyes. He was lying on the bed, his chest was rising and lowering with quick and shallow breaths, his hands had slid down her body until they reached her calves and rested without squeezing, his face was flushed and he looked contented like he could only be after an orgasm.

She felt his member soften inside of her and for a brief moment she considered resuming her bouncing until she came and he was hard again. She didn’t want to though, and at that very moment she couldn’t have cared less about her pleasure.

She pushed on her knees and raised her hips, making Draco slowly slide out of her. She rolled on the bed and lay next to him, her body curling against his side, her hair brushing over his shoulder.

He stretched an arm and slid it under her figure, pulling her to him in a possessive embrace. He liked to hold her close after sex, his hands caressing her body as if she were his property.

He cupped her cheek and guided her face up to kiss him. He did it once, twice. Soft, feathery kisses that contrasted with the rough way he touched her during sex.

When he finally stopped, she was surprised to hear the concern in his voice. “What’s wrong?” he asked softly.

Pansy closed her eyes, snuggling a bit closer to him. “Nothing,” she replied softly.

“Please,” he snorted with a slight frustration in his voice, “you are not talking, you look awful.” She felt him turn his head to look at her. “Did you even come?”

Pansy sighed. Draco had never been much of a sensitive man. Why did he have to start now?

“I’m fine,” she murmured, finding that a satisfying enough reply to each of his questions.

“Pansy,” he called her, sliding his arm from under her body, “look at me.”

She rolled her eyes against her eyelids and opened them to stare into his own. He was propped on one elbow, looking down at her with a severe expression on his face. It was weird for her, he was usually just eager to start again after his first orgasm. “What?” she snapped a bit too heatedly than she had intended.

“What’s wrong?” he insisted, and for a moment she thought that maybe he did not find her arousing enough in that moment and wanted to know what was wrong to get it right and get another go at her.

“ _Nothing_ ,” she repeated, stressing the word through her gritted teeth, “don’t you think I would tell you if something was wrong?”

“No,” he replied, “because you never tell me anything.”

Pansy rolled her eyes, now in plain sight for him to see. “Rubbish,” she snapped, pushing away from him and stretching her arms above her head like a cat.

“If I think about it,” he insisted animatedly, “I don’t even know where you live or what you do in your free time.” He looked at her and Pansy seemed to see a flash of horror in his eyes. “I don’t know anything about you,” he added softly.

Pansy felt a jolt of guilt in her stomach. She had never told him anything, but she thought he couldn’t have cared for her private life any more than a stranger would. He had never asked her anyway, so it was not completely her fault. Or maybe he had never asked her because he didn’t want to invade her privacy since she had always been so reticent to tell him about her life. Could he be so much more sensitive than she thought? So much more caring? She suffocated a snigger. Not a Malfoy. “Yes, Draco,” she finally sighed, “I have something on my mind. Happy?”

Draco brushed away a lock of golden hair from his face. “No,” he told her, “not happy. What is it?”

“Why do you want to know?” she asked irritated. “Was this shag really that bad?”

“Not for me,” he replied heatedly. “Did you even come?” he asked again.

Pansy rolled on her back and scrunched up her eyes, taking a deep, irritated breath. “No, I didn’t come,” she bit out, “and yes, I have something on my mind.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “Nothing you can do anything about, so stop asking.”

Draco threw his hands in the air and fell on his back next to Pansy. “Merlin, why do you have to be so dramatic?” he grunted.

Now it was her turn to lean on an elbow to look down at him. “Dramatic? Me?” she asked incredulously. “That’s rich!”

“Yes,” he growled, “you’re dramatic because you just can’t answer a simple question without putting up a scene.”

Pansy let out a grumble. “Okay,” she bit out, “okay, I’ll tell you just to shut you up!” She looked at his grey eyes as they looked up at her expectantly. She swallowed and snorted. “Mr Borgin asked me to marry him,” she blurted out quickly.

She was not sure what emotions Draco’s face sported at the news. He looked vaguely annoyed, probably, or probably he didn’t and it was just a combination of the dim light in the bedroom and of Pansy’s hope that he would be if not jealous at least irritated with Mr Borgin. He looked also like he was at a loss of words, and she welcomed the change in him. But when he laughed out loud, Pansy felt a sharp pain shoot through her temples.

“Just that?” he asked, still chuckling.

Pansy glared at him. She was ready to hex him and leave him there until next week. “Isn’t that enough?” she hissed.

“No!” he replied simply. “I mean, you told him no, right?” He looked at her, raising his head a bit when she delayed her answer. “Right?” he asked again, his voice a bit softer.

“Of course,” she replied, the very thought of marrying him made her shiver.

“Then what’s the problem?” he asked lightly. He turned suddenly to look at her. “Unless you are thinking about marrying him,” he added suspiciously. “Did he confess his love for you?”

Pansy looked away. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she muttered. “He just needs a wife to give him an heir.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead, disappearing behind his hair. He looked at her as if she was out of her mind and Pansy really didn’t know what to make of his stare. She furrowed her brow and narrowed her eyes, trying to understand what he was thinking.

“Well, did you tell him that you are sterile? That could have saved you the awkward conversation, I guess,” he pointed out nonchalantly.

Pansy sighed. “Yeah, right,” she replied, “what if one day I want to have a family and I get pregnant?” She closed her eyes. She couldn’t see herself having children with anybody at the moment, but maybe in the future… “It’s not a sensible lie.”

Again, Draco looked at her as if she was crazy. “But you  _are_  sterile,” he insisted softly.

Pansy looked back at him without understanding. “What?” she asked, shock rather than irritation in her voice. “Who told you that?”

Draco looked a bit taken aback. “You did,” he replied, unsure.

Pansy’s lips parted in a surprised expression. “When?” she asked flabbergasted.

Draco sat up. “Our first time together,” he replied quickly, “you said that I could have come into you, you wouldn’t have gotten pregnant.”

The witch looked at him, trying to understand if he was serious or not. She couldn’t believe that he was really that stupid, or really that inexperienced about contraceptives. How had he managed to keep Astoria childless for so long? Was he screwing her at all? “I was on a potion, Draco,” she told him slowly, “I’ve always been since I was sixteen.”

Draco seemed to take time to process this new piece of information. He looked at her as if he felt almost ashamed of his naïveté. “I didn’t know,” he managed to whisper.

Pansy looked at him as if that was no excuse for his ignorance. “Your mother gave it to me,” she explained and it felt strange to say those words out loud. There had been a time when Narcissa was kind to her, when Pansy had confided in her and his mother had helped her. Or maybe not, maybe she just wanted to avoid a scandal that would involve her only son. Or her husband.

“I didn’t know,” he replied stupidly.

Pansy smirked. “Well, thank Merlin you weren’t the girl in our relationship, because I would have got you pregnant at Hogwarts,” she sniggered.

Draco looked offended at her. She was subtly calling him an idiot, but he seemed to have picked up on that. “If I was a girl,” he informed her lightly, “I wouldn’t have given my virginity to a man until I was married.”

To Pansy’s surprise, he seemed to understand his mistake before her face changed from smug to angry. She was not a pureblood, she was not noble, she was not rich, but she wasn’t going to stay there to hear him insult her.

His arms closed quickly around her tiny body as he pulled her to him almost frantically. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I’m sorry, Pansy.”

She wiggled herself free from his embrace, swung her legs over the bed and stood up. “I guess you’re right,” she hissed, “I shouldn’t have given you my virginity.” She started to pick up her clothes from the floor and wear them in a frenzy, wanting more than anything to Disapparate from that place.

“No, no,” Draco hurried to say. “It was a great gift,” he added weakly.

Pansy looked at him with contempt. “Oh please,” she bit out, “save it for Astoria.”

“Pansy…”

“What?” she barked. “I’m a slut.” She looked at him, her eyes burning as she said those words. “Isn’t that what your wife called me?” She wore her cloak and tied it around her shoulders. “Isn’t that what I am to you? Just a whore? Someone you can bury yourself in once a week to make you feel better?”

To her surprise Draco looked uncomfortable and she felt a hint of pleasure as she screamed at him. His grey eyes looked even bigger than usual as he stared at her, unsure of what to reply. She didn’t expect him to say anything at all, though. He seemed petrified on the bed, and Pansy tried to remember if that was the first time that she had ever raised her voice with him.

“Don’t worry,” she hissed after a long moment, “you don’t need to answer me.” She looked at him with piercing dark eyes and Disapparated, the room disappearing before her.

Instead of Apparating near Borgin and Burkes though, she found herself in the middle of her small flat in Diagon Alley. She let out a cry of frustration and took out her rage on the first thing that she found. It was a cup and it shattered against the opposite wall, the pieces of glass falling like rain on the floor.

He didn’t understand her. She felt stupid for having thought that he might have at some point. They were so blatantly different and she didn’t even think he noticed that. He had everything and she had nothing. He was important, and she was not. He had power over her, and she…

Her eyelids closed over her tired eyes. She had power over him too. She knew she was able to make him angry, worried or happy with just her words, and somehow she knew, deep down, that he wanted her. He needed her.

***

To Pansy’s surprise, work had not changed much ever since Mr Borgin had asked her to marry him and she had refused. Their relationship didn’t seem more awkward than usual, he didn’t seem kinder to her and he didn’t talk more or less than before. The one thing that had changed though was the way he touched her, that was he didn’t touch her anymore. As if by brushing his greasy fingers against her body he had hoped for her to fall under some kind of love spell and now that he had found out that it wasn’t working, he had lost interest in touching her. She was glad for that.

She took a deep breath as she walked out of the shop that evening, locking the door at her back as she stepped into Knockturn Alley. For once, she couldn’t have cared less about the people in the street and what they wanted from her. She found herself with a shrunken head in her hands without even noticing, and sighed as she felt her pocket slightly lighter than what it was before she had walked out of the shop.

She had been in a daze for two days, ever since she had left Draco on the bed in his flat. She couldn’t stop thinking about what he would have said if she had married Mr Borgin. No, not just Mr Borgin. She couldn’t stop thinking about what he would have said if she had gotten married at all. Would he be jealous? Would he be angry at her? Surely he couldn’t be, he  _was_  the married one for crying out loud! But he looked so relaxed when she told him about her boss’ proposal that she just wanted to tell him that she was getting married to entice another reaction from him. A different one. One that didn’t make her hurt inside.

She walked all the way to her flat without Apparating. The cold, wintery wind flushing her cheeks. She pushed the door of her flat open and walked in. The place was dark and cold and she hurried to close the window that overlooked Diagon Alley. She usually left it open in case there was post, but most days she came home to no letters at all. Not that night. As she glanced on the table, she found a letter with her name written in a fine writing awaiting to be opened.

She recognized the writing and sighed. Another letter from Miss Strasears. That was probably the third one that week and her landlady had never been more pressing than she was now. The first letter had let her know that she had a payment due that Tuesday, the second that the payment had not been received and now… Now it was probably another notice to let her know that she owned her money. Money that she didn’t own herself. For a brief moment she considered throwing the letter away without opening it, as if that would have made all her troubles disappear.

It was no use and she knew it. Better to face her problems and find a solution rather than do nothing and hope that they would solve themselves. She poured herself a glass of tap water, opened the letter and started reading it.

> _Dear Miss Parkinson,_
> 
> _After multiple overdue payments from your part, I am rueful to inform you that I have decided to terminate your contract. You are thus being asked to vacate the rental property within the next six days. Please make note of the fact that you will still be required to pay the rent for the past month before you vacate._
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _Georgina Strasears_

Pansy stared.

She couldn’t hear her ragged breathing above her own blood pulsing wildly in her ears, her head was light and spinning and she came back to reality only when she clutched the letter so tightly in her hands that her own nails dunked into her palms through the parchment.

She skimmed through the letter again. Just to see if she had understood it completely. How could she not? It was so short and direct, as if Miss Strasears wanted to leave her no doubts.  _Terminate your contract. Vacate the rental property. Pay the rent._  She had no doubt. Her landlady wanted her out of there by the end of the week.

She put down the letter and collapsed on a chair, staring in front of her without actually seeing anything. There was something so incredibly wrong in that letter, and it was coming in such a terrible moment, Miss Strasears would have never sent it if only she had known. There was no place cheaper than that flat for her to rent, not even in Knockturn Alley. She knew it because she had searched for an accommodation thoroughly when she had first started working at Borgin and Burkes, and prices had been already too high five years before, she didn’t even want to know what peaks they reached now. Nothing she could afford, since her salary hadn’t increased of a single Galleon since her first day.

What was she to do? She had to vacate her place – the only place she had ever had to herself – in a week, and she felt like she had no other option but to do as she was told. Her landlady had always been so very patient with her, always forgiving her delays and never asking anything of her as a tenant. Pansy couldn’t understand why she was kicking her out at that very moment. She would have paid her, if she had had the money. Hadn’t she been that stubborn, she might have asked Draco for some help, but she would rather sleep on the street than ask him.

She thought of Mr Borgin and how happy he would be with that piece of news. He was waiting exactly for that, for her to have no place to go and him offering to welcome her in his flat over the shop. Or maybe not even that, he would probably just sneer at her misfortune and tell her that she should have taken the opportunity when he had offered it to her.

Pansy shook her head forcefully as if to clear her thoughts. She had to think hard about the situation. Where could she go? She didn’t know many people and didn’t want to ask the few acquaintances she had for any favour. Her damn pride forbade it. Maybe she could have asked him for a raise, and maybe he would have just laughed at her request.

She didn’t know what to do, didn’t have a clue, and was just too tired and cold and hungry to think about it. She dragged herself to her bed on the other side of the room and collapsed on it. She kicked off her shoes and rolled under the covers in the same clothes she had worn all they long. For the first time in four years she wished to be with Draco just to feel her small body safe in his arms, just to feel that not everything was going bad, just to forget everything else.

***

Pansy couldn’t believe how long she had stayed in a state of despair. Two, three days probably and she was angry at herself for that. She hadn’t accomplished anything at all and her situation hadn’t improved. The only thing she had done was write to her soon-to-be ex-landlady to ask her for more time. Her reply had come quickly and it sounded pretty definitive to Pansy. Miss Strasears had already found another tenant and needed the place, she had to be out by the end of the week, or she would call the Ministry and evict her.

Pansy had torn the letter into such small pieces that not even the Department of Mysteries would have understood what it said. She had kept her mouth shut with Mr Borgin, he would have needed to know that she was homeless only once she was actually living on the streets. And maybe it was because she was upset, but she thought that her boss looked quite self-satisfied ever since she had received the letter. That couldn’t have been though, he didn’t know about the eviction or her woes.

She hadn’t seen Draco yet, but she knew that she would have put on a brave face with him and faked her being okay, she just had to make some small talk with him and to, at least, remember to fake an orgasm if her distress didn’t let her reach her release.

And now, after a long and tiring day of work, she was walking silently down Knockturn Alley, looking, without apparent reason, over her shoulder every now and then as she hurried towards the dark windows of the apothecary.

She let out a sound of despair when she tried to open the door and found it locked. The sign on the door told her that it was closed for the day, he would open the following day at eight as always. Pansy felt her heart sink. She would be working at eight and now was the only time she could be there and the door was already shut in her face.

She felt something tighten in her chest. As if the stars were always against her. She balled her hands into fists and started banging on the door.  _Not this time, damn stars,_ she thought. “Mr Burke,” she called, her voice loud. She heard voices at her back as some suspicious looking individuals walked past her and looked at her as if she was the weird one there. She just banged harder on the door and called the name of the wizard again.

It was only when her hands were raw and her voice was hoarse that a dim light flickered behind the window of the shop. A face looked down at her through the misty window and she looked up to meet the eyes of the only person she could dare to hope he would help her.

Mr Burke looked intensely at her and opened the door of his shop. Suddenly in front of the wizard, she felt like an abandoned kitten left in a basket in front of a doorway.

“Mr Burke,” she murmured, “can I come in?”

Mr Burke squared his face and moved aside to let her in. “Miss Parkinson,” he greeted her softly, “perhaps you would like me to teach you the meaning of the word ‘closed’.”

Pansy walked towards the middle of the shop, potions bubbling around her in the semi-darkness of the room.  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr Burke,” she replied in the most innocent voice she could muster, “but I need to talk to you.”

Mr Burke looked at her with a puzzled expression, and Pansy knew that he didn’t have the faintest idea of what she was talking about. “Is it about Mr Borgin?” he asked her, slight concern in his voice.

Pansy shook her head. “No, no,” she hurried to say, “it’s about me.”

Mr Burke looked at her without showing any emotion. “About you?” he asked slowly.

Pansy nodded. He didn’t seem too inclined to drag the conversation longer than needed so she just went ahead and told him. “I need a job,” she let him know, hope in her voice.

Mr Burke raised his chin and looked down at her with diffidence. “You have a job, Miss Parkinson.”

“I need a new one,” she insisted softly. She considered begging, but discarded the idea almost immediately.

“I don’t think there are enough hours in a day to let you have two jobs,” he replied calmly.

Pansy shook her head. “No, just one,” she told him.

Mr Borgin frowned slightly, probably he was confused. He gestured for her to follow him into the back of the shop, but to her surprise he didn’t stop there. He walked past the shelves and the fireplace and towards the narrow, steep staircase. He led her up the stairs and through a black door. To Pansy’s surprise she understood that he was letting her into his very own flat.

It was small and dark but tidy. He pointed his wand to a chair and it moved back from under the table. “Sit,” he ordered as he himself sat across from her. He leaned his elbows on the table and looked at her with questioning eyes. “Well?” he asked after a few seconds. “Has Mr Borgin dismissed you?”

Pansy raised her eyes on the older man, he looked serious, deadly serious. She shook her head. “No,” she replied, “but I want to resign.”

Mr Burke’s eyes narrowed. “Why? If I may ask.”

Pansy bit her bottom lip. “I’ve lost the contract on my flat,” she replied quietly. “I need to find a new place and I can’t afford anything with the salary I get from Mr Borgin.”

The man furrowed his brow. “So you need a higher salary than the one that Mr Borgin provides you with, Miss Parkinson,” he stated simply. “And why do you think that working for me would be more profitable than working for Mr Borgin?”

Pansy gritted her teeth. “I think that any job would be more profitable than mine,” she replied heatedly.

Mr Burke raised an eyebrow. “Have you asked for a raise?”

“Not directly,” she informed him, feeling her voice relaxing a little as the conversation proceeded. “But I don’t think Mr Borgin would be happy if I asked.” Suddenly, a cold fear clutched her interiors. Mr Borgin was friends with Mr Burke, he surely told him about the proposal. Was Mr Burke going to suggest to her to marry him? Was this going to be a great exercise in futility again?

“Have you asked him to rent a room in his flat?” he asked instead. “It’s quite bigger than mine, you know.”

Pansy looked away. She would have slept on the streets rather than sleep a few feet away from Mr Borgin. She sighed. Or maybe not… The streets were cold in winter and she would have probably made a lovely rape or murder victim. She wondered if Draco would have come to her funeral if that happened. “No,” she replied quietly.

Mr Burke took a deep breath and when he spoke again his voice was gentler and more patient. “Miss Parkinson,” he murmured, “I’ve known Mr Borgin for years now and I know he is extremely fond of you.” He stopped to look at her with apologetic eyes. “Even though it’s difficult for him to express those kind of feelings. He considers you a valuable addition to the shop and he believes that his business would probably be affected by your departure.”

Pansy bit her tongue. She wanted to tell him that that thought just made her happy, but she knew she couldn’t possibly show her real emotions. Not now. She tried another approach. “I’m sure I could be a valuable addition to your shop as well, Mr Burke,” she insisted, trying to sound as sweet and as gentle as she could.

The wizard darkened. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly hire you, Miss Parkinson,” he replied coldly, “not unless I want to put my closeness with Mr Borgin in jeopardy.”

Pansy felt the tenuous sparkle of hope that she had dared to nurture in the past minutes burn out completely. Her heart felt suddenly heavy and she sighed. “And you don’t want that,” she stated bitterly.

“Not in the least, no,” he replied tranquilly, “we have both profited from our friendship in the past.”

Pansy wondered if ‘friendship’ wasn’t too strong a word to define the relationship those two had. She stood up slowly from the chair. “Thank you for your time, Mr Burke,” she whispered tonelessly.

The man nodded and it was only when Pansy turned her back towards him that he spoke again. “You should accept his proposal, Miss Parkinson,” he suggested gently, “you might discover that it’s not such a bad thing to be married to a wealthy man.”

Pansy’s fists closed at her sides, but she didn’t reply. She nodded softly though, not really expecting him to notice her head going up and down. She heard him stand up from the chair and follow her downstairs, but she didn’t speak and nor did he.

It was only when she found herself again in the cold and dark of Knockturn Alley that she let out a frustrated groan. She still had three days before she had to move out of her flat, but somehow she couldn’t see herself doing anything but moving into Borgin and Burkes. Maybe sleeping in the back of the shop. Maybe waking up with Mr Borgin’s eyes looming over her. Maybe not being able to sleep at all.

***

Draco crumbled the message in his hands and threw it towards the bin, missing it miserably. He sat down heavily in his armchair and grumbled. How dared Pansy to cancel their weekly rendezvous? And without an excuse.  _I can’t make it_. That was all she said.

Draco felt a slight frustration raising inside of him. He didn’t know anything about Pansy. Of course, he never asked her anything about her life, he couldn’t deny that, but she was so tight-lipped anyway that he just felt like he wouldn’t have been able to get anywhere with her. It bothered him because he told her everything. Every single thing that happened in his boring and quite uneventful life he made sure she knew. And she had always listened to him quietly, like the good girl she was. And until that very moment, Draco had not even for a second thought that she didn’t want to listen to him, that she found his constant chattering about his life dull or insignificant. He thought she enjoyed it, but maybe she didn’t and that was the reason why she didn’t talk about herself, she didn’t want to subject him to the same torture.

He shook his head to send those thoughts away. Whatever she thought about him she had never said it to Draco, and he was not one who had ever cared for other people’s emotions. But with Pansy… he didn’t quite know why, but it was different. He wanted to know what was going on with her and he wanted her to care about him. The very thought that she listened to him without interrupting only to please him pained him. He wanted her to want to listen to him, he wanted her to care. Above all though, he wanted to know about her. And he would make her tell whatever she was keeping from him.

***

“What did you say, girl?” hissed Mr Borgin, looking intently at Pansy.

Pansy’s eyes met his in a resolute stare. “I would very much appreciate if I could sleep in the back of the shop,” she repeated with as much dignity as she could muster. “Until I find a place to stay.”

Mr Borgin wetted his lips, a light that Pansy didn’t like at all gleamed in his eyes. “Do I look like I run a charity?” he asked, but his voice was less rough than she had expected.

Pansy flinched at the word ‘charity’, but shook her head as miserably as possible to enhance her possibilities of obtaining shelter in Mr Borgin’s shop. Again, she wondered if tears would help.

Mr Borgin scratched his ear with a finger. “People will start to talk if they know that a respectable man like me houses a young, single girl such as yourself,” he smirked, amusement in his voice as she bit her bottom lip in anger. “On the other hand,” he added, “I can’t surely let you live on the streets.” He looked at her up and down. “You know how important it is for me that you are always clean and tidy, and I hardly think you could be that if you lived in a box.”

She didn’t reply, her breath caught in her throat. Was that a yes? Was that a no? She hated these little games. She looked at him, but he seemed to lose every interest in her, since he was now looking at a new item that a client had just sold them. “So?” she dared to whisper.

Mr Borgin snorted. “Bring your stuff in after we close,” he grumbled. “Shrink your suitcase, I don’t want people to see you.”

***

Pansy lay in a corner in the back of Borgin and Burkes. Mr Borgin had found an old, smelly mattress that she could roll out on the floor, and in the ardour of the moment he even gave her freshly washed linen.

Now she was staring at the dark ceiling, her hands linked on her belly. Incredibly, she was actually full. Mr Borgin had invited her upstairs when she had asked him if she could use a spell to cook – “No fire in the back of my shop,” he had grumbled – and she had devoured the bangers and mash that he had pushed towards her on the table.

It was also the first time that she had been upstairs. Mr Burke was right, Mr Borgin’s flat was bigger than his, at least from what Pansy could see. It wasn’t as bad as she had expected, it was darkish and probably not exactly clean, but it was spacious and the kitchen was well equipped. The bathroom too, as she could see, was nice, it had a big tub and a small shower in a corner. She only caught a glance of the living room, but it looked like it was filled with books.

Dinner was awkward though, at least for Pansy, because she noticed that Mr Borgin didn’t seem in the least disturbed by her quiet presence and the lack of conversation between the two of them. It was also, as Pansy discovered, a quick affair, and she had to swallow quickly to finish roughly at the same time as Mr Borgin.

“You can clean up,” he let her know, and it was not a question.

Pansy did it without answer back, and she was grateful when he told her that he was going to bed and to show herself out.

From the little mattress she could hear the mice cavorting about in their cage. They were noisy and she considered petrifying them to make the noise cease. She knew she couldn’t do it though, Mr Borgin would have started the day by screaming at her for having tainted his lab rats with a spell.

She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, but it was long before she actually fell asleep. She dreamt of Draco and when she woke up in the middle of the night she found her bony fingers clutched tightly around the pillow.

***

Pansy wrote to Draco again. This time she said that she needed to take time off from their rendezvous. It was only momentarily, he didn’t have to hex the first thing that he had in front of him, but for now she had to sort out her life before being able to meet him again.

This time Draco wrote back. How long would it take her? What was wrong with her? Why didn’t she want to see him? He didn’t care. He would have gone to the flat anyway. He would have come to the shop, because he still didn’t know where she lived. He wanted to see her, it was just unfair that she didn’t want to come to the flat. What had happened? Why wouldn’t she talk to him? She made him angry. He wanted her to know that.

Pansy didn’t reply. She folded his letter and put it in her suitcase.

***

The moment that Pansy had feared the most arrived one winter morning. Mr Borgin climbed down the stairs to the back of the shop and walked to where she was still snoozing under the covers. It was still early because no light was filtering into the room, but he was already dressed and ready to start working, which was strange, because even now that she was sleeping there she was still the first one to wake up and the first one in the shop.

She heard him grab a chair and push it close to the mattress. When Pansy opened her eyes she found him perched over her, his beady eyes staring down at her face. Her eyes widened and he smirked.

“You look cold,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Pansy shook her head slightly. She was freezing, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’m fine,” she replied hoarsely.

Mr Borgin’s eyes narrowed. “I wonder how fine you’ll be in the middle of the street,” he sneered maliciously, “with these temperatures.”

Pansy’s fingers clutched the sheets under the covers. She clenched her jaw and didn’t reply. Was he threatening her to kick her out? It had been a month since she had moved into the shop and he had not once told her a thing about her staying. He had even seemed accommodating, at the beginning. He had offered her warm food and told her she could use the bathtub upstairs every time she wanted. He had given her permission to borrow his books from his living room and to petrify the mice from time to time.

Then, week after week, he had slowly morphed back into his old self. Forbidding her to come upstairs as if her constant hunger was just a gratuitous burden on his finances. She couldn’t touch the mice anymore and had to return the books. Only from time to time he came back to being nice to her, but it didn’t seem to last for long. And particularly now, it didn’t seem one of those moments at all.

“You have been here a month, girl,” he reminded her, “and have not found a place to stay yet.” He looked at her with coldness in his eyes. “I’m wondering if you’re trying at all to find a place.” He raised his chin. “You like too much to stay here for free, don’t you?”

Pansy gritted her teeth. He was withholding money from her salary, she didn’t consider herself to be there for free at all. “I can’t afford much with my salary,” she hissed much more harshly than she had intended.

Mr Borgin glared at her. “My former assistant considered it a most respectable salary,” he informed her icily.

“Riddle was here more than half a century ago.” She drew the cover up to her nose, which was now frozen and looked at him defiantly.

Mr Borgin shook his head. “If you can’t find a place you know what you have to do,” he reminded her severely.

Pansy nodded. “Leave this job,” she muttered so quietly that he didn’t hear her.

“I can give you money,” he insisted, his voice becoming slightly excited, “a position, food every day and a family.”

Pansy stared at the man. She had loved the food. She had loved the hot water in the shower. She had loved the tranquillity. But she just couldn’t… she couldn’t marry him. “You’re too old,” she finally hissed, since that was the only thing that she could have said that he wouldn’t have taken too bad. She pulled the covers away and stood up, then she tentatively walked towards the stairs, but stopped when he screamed that her toilet was down there and that she had to be ready quickly. They were opening in ten minutes.

***

And finally, Mr Borgin did it.

Pansy was still shocked. She had expected him to bark at her without biting, but he had bitten her. Right in the arse for that matter. He had kicked her out. She had to grab her stuff quickly, before he hexed her for good. And now she was standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron, with her suitcase in a hand and her wand in the other. She wondered how many days she could afford in there until she was kicked out again. Maybe she could get a discount if she offered to clean some rooms. Or cook in the kitchen. Or something else… but she shivered at the very thought.

Her room was small and clean, but still, as they told her the nightly rate, she figured she didn’t have more than a week before her money ran out. She sat on the bed for ages, staring at the wall and thinking. She breathed slowly, pondering her life.

He could have offered her money, food, family. Hadn’t she always wanted that? Money, yes. She had never wanted food as long as she had it, but now… And family? The desire of having a family got stronger every day, but not with Mr Borgin. The thought of having little, greasy children with that spiteful man made her sick. But if she kept taking the potion… And he was old, he would have died sooner or later. Maybe in forty years if she were lucky. Sixty if she was not.

Pansy shook her head, sending those spine-chilling thoughts at the back of her mind. The only person she wanted to have a family with already had one. She curled up in a ball and tried to ignore her stomach as she fell asleep.

***

When Pansy was called by Mr Borgin to the front of the shop that Wednesday morning, the last person she had expected to find in front of her was the one that was most certainly looking longingly at her with his piercing grey eyes.

“Mr Malfoy has specifically requested your assistance,” hissed Mr Borgin icily. He hated when clients asked him to be assisted by her and he usually unleashed all his rage once he was alone with Pansy, attacking her with cruel words and telling her off for no apparent reason. And she imagined that with Draco it was going to be even worse, because of the job he had given her years before.

Pansy looked Draco in the eyes as she nodded. “Thank you, Mr Borgin,” she replied calmly.

Mr Borgin grumbled something as he walked past her and towards the counter. He sat down and Pansy could feel his persistent stare on the back of her head without needing to turn.

“How can I help you, Mr Malfoy?” she asked, her voice emotionless.

Draco looked at her with wide eyes, as if he were trying to tell her something without talking. But she was not, and never had been, an expert in Legilimency, so she just stared at him without understanding.

Mr Borgin coughed slightly, and even his cough seemed irritated.

“Maybe I can tempt you with something in the cursed jewellery section,” she suggested, walking past him and towards the farthest and darkest corner of the shop. If she were lucky, maybe he would buy something for Astoria. A nice necklace that would burn her skin when she lied to him, maybe. It had arrived that morning and it was a deal.

Draco followed her without saying anything, but when she started to fumble to open the cupboard where Mr Borgin kept the jewellery he grabbed her arm and spun her around. She saw his face leaning close to her and for a moment she thought that he was going to kiss her. Instead he brought his lips closer to her ear. “Come this afternoon,” he murmured almost urgently.

Pansy tilted her head away from him. She looked at him and then glanced quickly at Mr Borgin, who was not looking at them, and then back at Draco. She shook her head imperceptibly, her eyes looking at him almost sheepishly. “I can’t,” she whispered softly. “I have to work.”

Draco’s hand tightened on her arm as if to make his anger get across to her. “Pansy,” he called her, and even though he probably wanted to sound angry, he just sounded needy.

She wiggled free from his fingers and turned to open the cupboard, drawing out a box. “This is our most recent purchase,” she said out loud, “a necklace worthy of a Malfoy.”

Draco’s eyes moved slowly on the piece of jewellery that she was holding out to him. “What does he do?” he asked, bored.

“There’s a truth curse on it,” she replied, smiling, “every time the wearer lies it burns her – or his – skin.” She caressed the jewels and the thick silver chain with her fingers. “It’s Indian, came this morning with a shipment from Goa,” she continued, “a unique piece, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco’s lips twitched in a smirk as he took the necklace from her hands, studying it attentively. For a moment she thought that he was going to buy it and she dared to relax a little. But what he did then was unexpected and Pansy was too shocked to move away from him as he spun her around again, this time to face away from him. She looked at her reflection in the full length mirror in front of her and stared in horror as Draco opened the clasp behind her and lowered the chain around her neck.

“Draco,” she whined softly when the clasp clicked near the nape of her neck and she felt the heavy chain being placed on her collarbone. She looked at him with hatred and anger, but didn’t move, her fingers automatically going to tug the necklace.

He slid his hands down from her shoulders to her upper arms, grabbing her forcefully to keep her in front of the mirror and looking down at her with a cruel glint in his eyes.

“Why don’t you want to come this afternoon?” he whispered in her ear, his eyes fixed on the place where the necklace touched her skin.

Pansy gritted her teeth, if a glare could kill, Draco would be dead. “I have to work,” she murmured harshly.

Draco’s eyes focused on her skin, and he seemed disappointed when nothing happened. She had to work. That was the honest truth. She couldn’t lose any more hours, any more money.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked her, his voice impatient.

She looked at his reflection with cold, black eyes and her jaw clenched furiously. She shook her head slowly, silently pleading for him to let her go.

His hands clutched more forcefully around her tiny arms. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked again, his voice now a bit louder than she would have liked.

“Please, Mr Malfoy,” she pleaded, “Mr Borgin doesn’t want me to try on the jewellery.”

Draco’s nails dung into her skin through her jumper. “Pansy,” he murmured warningly. “What’s wrong?”

How could she explain it to him? She had nothing and he had everything, he wouldn’t understand her. Her life was a disaster and there was nothing he could do, except maybe laugh at her.

She shook her head softly. “Nothing,” she murmured so quickly and softly that she hoped the necklace didn’t detect the lie.

But it did and the pain was unbearable. As if she were wearing a chain made of fire, her skin burned quickly. She opened her mouth in a silent cry and tensed her muscles in Draco’s arms. For her the pain lasted an eternity, but in reality it was only a question of mere seconds.

Draco let her arms go and unclasped the chain at once, letting it fall on the floor next to her feet with a loud thud. She raised her eyes on her reflection and saw that she was as white as a ghost, and a subtle layer of perspiration covered the skin between her nose and her upper lip. Where the chain had been her skin was scorched. It was red and some little bubbles were already forming. It was a disgusting and most astonishing view.

When she raised her eyes to look at Draco she saw, to her surprise, that he looked even worse than her. He was almost paler than herself, and he seemed to be shaking slightly, but that could have been Pansy. He looked petrified, as if he hadn’t expected her to lie to him rather than tell him the truth and save herself some pain. His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

Pansy looked back at her reflection and suddenly she felt alone and abandoned like she had never felt before. Those rich people for whom everything was just a game. She was just another game for him.

She looked as he drew out his wand and leaned closer to her, one of his hands circling her waist in an affectionate gesture. She just wanted to slap him away.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he chanted in a hushed voice. He pointed the wand towards her burn and she closed her eyes as he muttered a healing spell. It felt good and it felt soothing and when she opened her eyes again her skin was back to her usual alabaster tone. She was surprised to feel disappointment in seeing the burnt disappear so easily. That only meant that the curse on the necklace was quite bland and the value of the jewel not as high as they had first believed.

He sneaked a hand on her cheek and made her turn her head towards him, he brought his lips to hers, kissing her gently to probably ask for forgiveness. She withdrew from him, and he didn’t stop her.

She took a couple of steps back from him and saw that her behaviour pained him immensely. She was glad it did. “Are you going to buy the necklace, Sir?” she asked, her voice a million light years away.

“I…” he seemed at a loss of words. “I have to go.”

Pansy wondered if he would have bought something if she had told him that Mr Borgin would be extremely displeased if he hadn’t purchased anything and that she would be the one paying the consequences. Maybe not. Maybe he didn’t know what Mr Borgin’s displeasure towards her meant.

Draco walked towards the door and banged it at his back as he stepped outside, leaving Pansy and Mr Borgin in the shop.

“Did he pay?” Mr Borgin’s voice rang in her ears like a bell.

Pansy walked to the counter to collect her gloves and pick up the necklace. “He didn’t buy anything,” she replied, her voice still quivering.

For the whole day she was not allowed to talk to the clients, and when someone came in she was sent to the back of the shop to do something else. Mr Borgin asked her if she had lost her touch, and she didn’t reply.

***

Pansy was hungry, cold, and shaking when she walked into Borgin and Burkes with her suitcase. It was Boxing Day, the day Pansy used to think of as the worst of the year when she was little, for Christmas had just only passed and it would be another year before the next one. It was only fitting, she thought, that she was there at that very moment. With that crazy idea in her mind.

She walked through the front door of the shop and came to stand in front of Mr Borgin. She bent her knees to place the suitcase where her few belongings were crumpled together after she hastily had to leave the Leaky Cauldron – they had let her stay until Christmas because… well, it was Christmas – and looked at Mr Borgin, who had raised his eyes on her and flared his nostrils.

“What did I tell you, girl?” he barked ferociously. “I don’t run a charity here.”

She bit her bottom lip. She was tired of not having a place where to stay, she was consumed by fear of not managing to make ends meet. She was frustrated about not being able to eat when she was hungry.

She just needed him as much as he needed her.

Bur her wide eyes were filled with uncertainty now that she was standing before Mr Borgin. She had felt much more resolute before, when she was sitting on the floor of her room at the Leaky Cauldron, her bony knees to her chest.

“Did you hear what I said?” he snarled when she didn’t reply.

She clenched her fists. “I need a place to stay,” she informed him quietly.

 Mr Borgin looked haughtily at her. “You know my terms, girl,” he growled.

Pansy didn’t look away. She nodded very quietly and felt her heart sink in her chest.

Mr Borgin’s expression changed. From hard and ferocious as it was a few moments before, it became surprised and almost gentle. “Don’t make a fool of me, girl,” he grunted, his voice thick with excitement.

“I’m not,” she murmured softly in reply. She lowered her eyes to the floor. “Marry me,” she whispered so quietly that she almost didn’t hear it herself. She felt like she was offering herself as a sacrifice to the Goddess of Fortune, in exchange for a better life.

When she looked back at Mr Borgin, she was surprised to find him standing a few inches from her face. She hadn’t heard him stand up or walk to her, probably because her blood thumping furiously in her ears didn’t let her hear much.

His disgusting face was so different from what Pansy was used to. He looked… happy. He was staring at her with his eyes wide and filled with tenderness. “It took you long enough,” he observed sweetly, “but we knew you would come around.” He stretched his hand towards her cheek and stroked it almost reverentially.

Pansy took a sharp breath and had to fight the urge of getting away from that hand. She wouldn’t be able to get away anymore now.

“Good, good,” drawled Mr Borgin as he withdrew his hand, “go now, bring your things upstairs. I have a spare room in my flat. The one next to mine.” He eyed her severely. “I’m old-fashioned,” he let her know, “you will have to wait to be Mrs Borgin to sleep in my bed.”

Pansy managed to hide a flinch at the title and nodded quickly. She grabbed her suitcase and walked past him, thanking Merlin that her duties as a wife would be delayed until after they got married.

As she climbed up the stairs to her new flat, she simultaneously climbed up the stairs to her new life.


	5. A Marriage of Inconvenience

***

Marital life wasn’t as bad as Pansy had feared. Pre-marital life actually, and that was probably the part where it wasn’t that bad. She didn’t mind the cleaning of the flat – it was actually an easy chore with the right spells – and she enjoyed the amount of free time that her future husband was granting her. Most of the time, he told her to go upstairs and rest or do whatever she liked.

Her favourite thing to do, though, was to cook and, to her surprise, she discovered that she was particularly good at it. Ever since the moment she left Hogwarts she had never had to cook, and after that, she had always had too little money to prepare a whole meal anyway. But now, now it was different. She cooked twice a day for two people and she loved it. She knew it was probably just the fact that she could eat anything she wanted – for she decided the dishes, not Mr Borgin – and that if she had to cook for someone else she probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it just as much. Mr Borgin was impressed with her culinary skills too, and that meant that he was well disposed towards her for most of the time.

Actually, Mr Borgin was well disposed towards Pansy all the time now. He was almost affectionate when he talked to her and showed his appreciation for what she did. Sometimes she even wondered why it took her so long to say yes to him. Then she remembered that she was not yet required to share a bed with him, and her mood darkened at the very thought of what awaited her. He had made it clear straight away. He wanted an heir and Pansy knew very well how an heir was generated. She cringed. Despite his gentleness, he was still an old, greasy man.

And now she was aggravated with the unwanted task to inform Draco of the news. She hadn’t seen him ever since the moment he decided it would have been fun to torture her. Yes, Pansy thought that  _torture_  was too strong a word for what he did, but she was still mad at him and liked to repeat that term in her head as it fuelled her rage. He had written to her, but she had never opened his letters, let alone write back. But she had to tell him. Bloody hell, she had to tell someone!

She grabbed a piece of parchment from Mr Borgin’s living room. She stopped.  _Their_  living room.  _No, not yet. Soon though. Too soon_ , she thought at times. Draco’s engagement had taken more than a year. She was to marry Mr Borgin the following month. But yet again, Draco’s wedding had been featured on the Prophet, while she had not even told her parents. Draco had invited more than a thousand guests, and she didn’t want to let anybody know about her marriage. Who would she have told anyway? Who would she have invited? Daphne hadn’t included her in her guest list, and she didn’t particularly want Millie to snigger at the view of her groom. Nott, she just didn’t know him that well anymore, and with Tracey she had lost touch over the years. She considered inviting Blaise. He came to see her in the shop every now and then, and she could still call him a friend when she thought about him. Did she need a bridesmaid at all? Probably Millie then. At least she was sure the bridesmaid wouldn’t be more beautiful than the bride herself.

And Draco… He had invited her to his wedding. But she really didn’t want him to come and look at her as she walked down the aisle and towards  _that_  man. She closed her eyes and dared to daydream for a bit. On her wedding day, Draco could have been the one to say that he had a reason for them not to get married. He could have grabbed her arm and dragged her away. Away from Mr Borgin. He could have brought her to the Manor and gotten her out of her wedding dress as if it were his right to do so. She had to shake her head and remind herself that she was mad with Draco for making her wear the necklace in order to manage to snap out of that painful fantasy.

She scribbled quickly on the parchment. She would tell him, tell him the date, the place and everything he needed to know. The invitation was implied. He didn’t have to come though. She didn’t want him to waste his time on a low class wedding in Knockturn Alley. She knew that was not expected of someone with his position. She looked fiercely at the message and smirked. It would be okay. She folded it carefully and put it in an envelope. It was time for her to go to send an owl.

***

Mr Borgin slurped down the broth that Pansy had prepared with such loud and rude noises that his future wife almost felt the urge to tell him something. She didn’t, in the end, but scowled him when he was not looking. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy the hot liquid and when he looked up at her, she saw that some broth had come dribbling down his chin. He gave her a smirk and proceeded to clean it off his face with his napkin.

“That was good, girl,” he praised her, letting out a small burp of appreciation.

Pansy acknowledged his compliment with a nod and a tiny smile. She still had half of her broth to finish. Ever since she had been getting regular meals she didn’t find the urge to gobble down the food; she could take her time and eat as much – or as little – as she wanted. Just like when she was at Hogwarts.

“I’ve gone through the guest list again,” he let her know, drawing a piece of parchment out of his pocket and putting it on the table. “And I noticed that you haven’t invited your parents.” He looked at her with sympathy. “Are you an orphan?”

Pansy put her spoon down. She took a deep breath. It scared her how little he knew about her, and vice-versa. In fact, she had to read his name on the wedding invitations to finally come to know it – it was Erebus – because the thought of asking her fiancé his first name was simply too weird. She came to the conclusion that her wedding wasn’t very different from Draco’s and Astoria’s after all. They all just needed each other in the least romantic way. “No,” she finally replied. “They disinherited me.”

Mr Borgin nodded and returned his attention to the list. Apparently, he already didn’t expect her to come with a dowry and he didn’t seem too displeased to not meet his future in-laws. She was glad, because her parents were way younger than him and she would have felt embarrassed to do the introductions.

“And who’s going to walk you down the aisle?” he asked thoughtfully, more to himself rather than her. He clicked his tongue. “I would be rather happy to have Mr Burke do it.” He looked at her. “What do you think?”

Pansy nodded slowly. Probably he was the closest thing she had to a parent. Or a distant relative, actually. He had always been kind to her and she liked him.

“Good, good,” he murmured contently, “now, I’ve seen you invited two people…”

Pansy rolled her eyes while he didn’t look. Were two too many for him? “Miss Bulstrode is my bridesmaid,” she let him know, “I figured I needed one.”

Mr Borgin nodded in understanding and ticked Millie’s name on the paper. “I’m afraid I don’t think you can invite Mr Zabini, though,” he told her, “I don’t like to mix business and pleasure.”

Blaise was probably the only person she wanted to invite, and having her future husband forbidding her to invite him made her fume. “Mr Malfoy invited us to his wedding,” she reminded him as politely as he could, “and Mr Malfoy is a client.” 

“And I’ve invited the Malfoys,” he told her, “but I hardly think that a family as respectable as theirs will come to a low class wedding such as ours.”

Pansy’s stomach churned. He had invited Draco? No, no, he had invited the  _Malfoys_. The very thought of having Astoria cheering at her wedding made her sick. She felt the broth coming back up from her stomach and wondered if she was going to be sick. And Draco? She didn’t need another reason to think again about what she was doing.

“But Mr Zabini is just a customer,” he continued, “we can’t have our customers at our wedding.”

“He is a friend also,” she pointed out. “And I only invited two people.”

Mr Borgin looked at her with annoyance, but complied with a grumble and ticked Blaise’s name on the list. He counted the guests and took a deep breath. “Twenty people,” he commented annoyed, “I wonder how much that’ll cost.”

Pansy stood up, she grabbed her plate and his and brought them to the sink, before coming back with a pot of steaming hot stew. Mr Borgin looked appreciatively at it when she gave him a generous spoonful. He gobbled down a few pieces of meat almost without chewing them and seemed to like it. “Speaking of money,” he added, his tone gentler. “I have a present for you.”

The pot almost ended up on the floor at those words, and Pansy burned her fingertips in an attempt to save the stew. He looked at her with amusement.

“A present?” she asked, wondering if she had heard him correctly.

Mr Borgin nodded. “You need to go to Madam Malkin’s next Tuesday at four,” he replied, looking intently at her, “a bride needs a dress, doesn’t she?”

Pansy nodded slightly. It was not exactly a present, now, was it? It was more a necessity, unless he wanted her to get married in her everyday clothes.

“I’ve already told her your budget,” he added sternly, “so don’t go overboard.”

Pansy shook her head. She had never been a witch to fantasise about her wedding day – luckily – and she had never cared much about a wedding dress. She just hoped somehow that she wouldn’t look hideous. She remembered Astoria in her pearly white wedding gown, the one that the Greengrasses had ordered from Paris. Pearls weaved in her bodice and a trail too many feet long to be comfortable.

“And for the food, the venue assured they would take care of anything,” he let her know. The venue he was talking about was a small inn, the Beheaded Witch, whose top floor had been converted into a room where most of the people who wanted to obtain a quick marriage, without too many questions asked, tied the knot. Pansy suspected he hadn’t spent more than a hundred Galleons for the whole ceremony, not exactly something that she would have liked to let Draco know.

“Good,” she replied quietly. “Are you inviting any of your relatives?” she added as an afterthought. Did he have any relatives?

“I have a sister,” he let her know, folding the list and putting it away, “but I’m not sure she is still alive. So, no.” He smirked at her and returned his attention to the stew.

Well, so much for family. At least they had something in common.

***

Millie clapped her hands for the umpteenth time. “You look gorgeous,” she squealed, her voice thick with overdramatic emotion.

Pansy sighed. She stared at her reflection, her thin body wrapped in white dress number twenty-five. Still, she couldn’t decide. They all looked too big or too ugly or too ridiculous to her. The fact that Madam Malkin was looking darkly at her from a corner of the shop – she seemed to have been frayed by the brobdingnagian task of having to tend to her – didn’t help either. And Millie and her stupid comments just made Pansy angry.

She turned to look at her profile. The dress was nice, after all. It covered her from neck to toe, and it was a brilliant white that almost hurt her eyes. It was simple and felt silky under her touch.

“I don’t know,” murmured Pansy. She looked at Madam Malkin through the mirror. “Can I see another one?”

Madam Malkin stiffened. “It would help to know how you would like it,  _dear_ ,” she sighed, deep irritation in her voice.

Pansy looked back at her reflection. “I don’t know,” she admitted flatly.

“I do,” chirped Millie, jumping up as nimbly as she could. “You don’t want sleeves, sleeves are so last year,” she chimed, “and you want a trail, a long one.”

Madam Malkin looked even more irritated than before. “As I’ve already told you, Miss Bulstrode,” she informed her, “Miss Parkinson’s budget won’t allow her to have a trail.”

“And it’s going to be too cold to go about with no sleeves,” agreed Pansy.

Millie giggled. “You can charm your dress, silly,” she told her. “Can we see one with no sleeves?”

Madam Malkin forced a smile on her lips and disappeared amongst the dresses.

Pansy looked as Millie came to stand next to her, the bigger girl put her hands on her waist and pulled at her dress. “And you need something more form-fitting.” She made her hands slide up her body and cupped her breasts. “And that makes your breasts bigger.”

Pansy slapped her hands away. “Millie,” she grumbled, irritated. She had known it was a bad idea to ask her to come with her to find a dress.

“What?” asked Millie, smiling. “Yours are so small!” She stood on tiptoes, arching her back to push her breasts up. “Touch mine.”

Pansy turned up her nose. “No, thank you,” she replied dryly. She rolled her eyes when Millie looked at her with big, shiny eyes. “I can see they are bigger,” she sighed.

Madam Malkin reappeared with another dress in her hands. She showed it to Pansy. “It’s sleeveless and strapless.” She eyed Pansy’s décolleté. “But don’t worry, we can charm it to stay up, in case it doesn’t.” Millie giggled. The older witch caressed the soft fabric with her fingers. “The bodice is in satin and floral lace, the skirt is in organza and it’s tea-length.”

Pansy looked warily at it. “Wouldn’t it be too expensive for Mr Borgin’s budget?” she asked.

Madam Malkin shook her head. “I’ll make you a good price,” she told her. “I have never managed to sell this.” She looked at Pansy’s tiny waist. “It never fit anybody.”

Pansy nodded. She took the dress and walked into the dressing room. The search for a wedding dress was more difficult than she had expected. She was tired, flustered and just wanted to go home at that moment, but Mr Borgin had told her not to come back without a dress because she wouldn’t have had another free afternoon to spend on such trivial matters. She made the dress she was wearing slide from her body and took the other one in her hands. It was soft and quite beautiful. But they all looked beautiful to her before she tried them on. She started to unbutton the many little buttons on the back and graciously slid into it. She pointed her wand to her back to button it up again.

Pansy had the chance to glance briefly at her reflection before Millie knocked on the door. “Are you done, Pansy?” she asked in her high-pitched voice.

She took a deep breath and put her wand away. She wouldn’t have liked to  _accidentally_  hex her own bridesmaid. She stepped out and looked from Millie to Madam Malkin, as they stared back at her with their eyes wide.

“Pansy…” breathed Millie.

“What?” she asked suspiciously. “Is it really that bad?”

Madam Malkin shook her head, a smile of relief on her face. “I think we found your dress, dear,” she sighed, her voice tired but cheerful.

Pansy stepped in front of the three full length mirrors and stared at herself. Was that really her? Surely the dress must have been enchanted, because she didn’t look anything like that usually.

Her pale figure was wrapped in a beautiful pearly white dress that shaped her almost inexistent curves and made her look almost…  _sexy_. Her breasts looked slightly bigger than usual, her buttocks more prominent, her waist… no change there, it was still tiny, but the dress was so tight-fitting and at the same time it wrapped her so softly that she just looked like some model out of Witch Weekly.

“How do you feel about the top, dear?” asked Madam Malkin practically. “We can put a spell on the dress if you’d like.”

She looked down at herself and nodded. Better to be safe than sorry.

Madam Malkin got hold of her wand, tapped the dress three time and muttered a spell. The bodice tightened a bit, pushing Pansy’s breasts higher and together, gluing itself to her warm skin. “You just have to undo the buttons for the spell to break, and I will write the incantation down so that you can perform it on your Wedding Day.”

Millie beamed at her. “You look outrageously good,” she exclaimed, a hint of envy in her voice that made Pansy curl her lips in a smile.

“You forgot this, dear,” pointed out Madam Malkin, “it’s not like it’s necessary, but it’s a nice touch.” She made a tiny, dark grey satin ribbon slide around Pansy’s waist and knotted it on the small of her back. “There,” she added as Pansy turned to look at herself. “Now you are a real bride.”

“Do you like it, Pansy?” asked Millie eagerly.

Pansy looked from her reflection to her friend, a small smile on her lips. “I do,” she replied and noticed that her voice was almost broken with emotion. She cleared her throat and tried to find something to say that didn’t make her sound like a quivering Hufflepuff. “Is it really that cheap?”

Madam Malkin nodded. “I told you, dear, I’ve had a tough time trying to sell it. But now I know why.” She smiled despite her being tired. “It was waiting for you.” She smiled even more brightly. “You’ll make a wonderful bride, dear.”

Millie clapped her hands again and Pansy blushed at the thought that hearing those words pleased her terribly. “Thank you,” she found herself saying. Then she shook her head and looked resolutely at Madam Malkin. “Now, something for the bridesmaid, I reckon.”

Madam Malkin paled and Millie burst into an even higher-pitched fit of giggles. Pansy didn’t particularly care about them though. She just brought her eyes back on her reflection and stared in awe. She was pretty.  _No_ , she was sexy. And maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if Draco decided to come to her wedding after all.

***

“You’ve got a letter, Draco,” Lucius informed him, walking into his son’s study. “A letter from London.”

Draco looked at his father. He hadn’t received a letter from London in weeks now, and he felt a slight excitement at the news. Pansy had told him that she would write to let him know the moment she was ready to resume their encounters. It had been months now and Draco was starting to get more and more nervous about her delay. He had wondered many times if she were going to write to him ever again. Panicking slightly at the thought that maybe she wasn’t.

“Thank you,” he murmured as Lucius handed him the letter. His heart skipped a beat; it was definitely from Pansy. He recognised her writing.

“And you have a wedding invitation as well,” added Lucius, smirking.

Draco took the other envelope that his father was handing him. “From who?” he asked, frowning. He didn’t quite know anybody who was going to get married at that moment.

He could hear the smirk in his father’s voice. “Mr Borgin,” he informed him, “I’ve received one myself.”

Draco looked at the invitation with his mouth slightly open. Could it be…? No, certainly it wasn’t. She had told him she would never… He had laughed at the notion of… Pansy…

He swallowed and his hands fumbled to open the envelope. He found out that he was nervous. He tried to snort at his nervousness, but it didn’t really help. Inside there was indeed an invitation, hand-written in an ugly writing and on a plain piece of parchment that seemed to have been torn from a bigger one.

_Mr Erebus Borgin_

_Would like to invite you to his wedding to_

_Miss Pansy Parkinson_

_On February 28 th_

_At the Beheaded Witch, top floor_

Draco brushed the letter with his fingertips. It was real, it was there in front of his eyes. Pansy was getting married. He felt overwhelmed with many emotions, and he was not used to it. As a Malfoy he had been brought up to control his feelings and was unaccustomed to feel more than one at a time. Most of the time he didn’t feel anything. But now… he was angry. And he was frustrated. And he felt betrayed, crazy with jealousy and confused.

Pansy was getting married. Pansy.  _His_  Pansy. She was getting married. He shook his head. She was not  _his_. She had never been. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine her on her first wedding night, only to cringe and have to open his eyes again. The thought of Mr Borgin’s greasy hands sliding over her minute, naked figure made him feel revolted and mad. He didn’t expect her to be faithful to him and only him for all her life, but thinking of her in his arms… Making love to him. To her  _husband_. He just couldn’t.

Why was this happening? Hadn’t she told him that she didn’t want to marry him? He thought she really meant it. Why was she giving in to his request? He didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t, she never told him anything. He felt a bitter rage raising inside of him. He wanted her all for himself, he wanted to know everything about her, he wanted to be with her at that very moment.

“Are you thinking about going?”

Draco’s eyes snapped up, surprised to see his father still standing there in front of him. He had completely forgotten about him, too engrossed in the invitation and his own thoughts.

“Are you?” he asked back, his voice soft.

Lucius laughed heartily. “Oh my dear boy,” he mocked, “not at all.” He looked out of the window. “It would be an utter waste of time.”

Draco nodded slightly.

“But I believe you should attend,” he continued flatly. “After all, they did come to your wedding.”

“I guess I—”

“Of course we will be attending,” Astoria’s excited voice interrupted Draco’s musings. She walked into the study with a malicious smile upon her face and came to stand behind an armchair, leaning her elbows on the back of the piece of furniture. “It would be incredibly rude of us not to go,” she added, still smiling, “and poor Mr Borgin and Miss Parkinson require our presence.”

Draco stared at her coldly. He knew her too well to be fooled by her words. The excitement in his wife’s voice was surely due to the fact that Pansy Parkinson was getting married to an old, disgusting man, and she would have to live the rest of her life as his wife, above a shop in Knockturn Alley. And also that probably Pansy’s husband would forbid her to leave the house whenever she wanted. And he would get her pregnant, and she would have her family and forget about Draco and their time together.

“Am I not right,  _darling_?” asked Astoria, pulling a lock of curls behind her ear and fluttering her eyelashes at Draco.

Draco leaned against the back of his armchair. “Indeed,” he replied icily. “I will send the R.S.V.P. back tomorrow.”

Astoria was quick like a cat. “No need,” she purred, taking the invitation from the table. “I’ll do it.”

Draco glared at her, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to argue with her in front of his father, not again. He just wanted her to get out of his study and to be able to open the other letter. “Go send it then,” he finally hissed.

Astoria flashed him a toothy smile and walked with grace out of the study, leaving the two men alone.

“I suppose you have a handful there,” commented his father emotionlessly. “She reminds me of your mother when I first married her.” He looked intently at Draco. “Of course at Astoria’s age, your mother already had a son to direct all her attitude upon.”

Draco raised his eyes to look back at his father with annoyance. “I don’t want a son yet,” he replied coldly.

Lucius didn’t move. “That is pretty clear,” he hissed, “but I’m saying these things for you, Draco. Women are dangerous, especially when they are angry.”

Draco snorted derisively. “I’m not scared of my wife,” he let his father know. “She can’t cause me any harm.”

Lucius seemed to study Draco’s face, but when Draco looked back at him with determination he just shook his head imperceptibly and walked towards the door. “But I believe she has already harmed you, Draco,” he whispered cryptically and walked out of the study, the door closing at his back with a soft thud.

Draco furrowed his brow, what did Lucius mean? He shook his head, he didn’t have time for his father’s riddles. He grabbed the envelope and tore it open. Indeed, it was Pansy’s letter that was nestled inside. It was a short message and Draco skimmed through it quickly to see if she wanted to meet him. She didn’t, but Draco noticed that something was not quite right. She seemed to be oblivious to the invitation that had been sent from Mr Borgin and she was telling him that he didn’t need to come if he didn’t want to. Well, it was too late for that now, wasn’t it? She didn’t tell him why she was marrying that man, nor what she was feeling. She just informed him about it in the coldest way possible. He was not surprised, he himself was still upset about the accident they had with necklace. He could only imagine what she felt towards him at that moment.

It hadn’t been his fault, though. How was he supposed to know that she would have rather let the artefact burn her skin than tell him the truth? Draco shook his head. The image of Pansy in pain in his arms, her muscles tensing under his fingers and the smell of her skin burning still made him sick. But it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t! She shouldn’t have lied to him. He hurt almost as much as she did when he saw that she was lying.  _Almost_.

The wedding was in two weeks. All he could think now was that he was going to see Pansy. And that when he was going to see her, she would be someone else’s wife.

***

Pansy had been spacing out for the whole day. She had let a cursed, gold thimble fall in the shop and the whole floor covered in needles that were hard to vanish because they were too small to see. She had burnt the mashed potatoes that she was cooking for lunch, and Mr Borgin had snarled at her when she came downstairs with only a small sandwich as his meal. She got her wrist trapped in the iron fist of a mummy’s hand and had to damage the item to get free. By the end of the day, she just wanted to go upstairs, slide under the covers and never wake up again. Especially not the following morning.

At the thought of her wedding, she felt sick. Now that her wedding dress had been resting in her wardrobe for days and every guest had replied positively to the invitation, she felt like the idea of marrying Mr Borgin was becoming tangible, and once again, she didn’t like it.

She took a deep breath and picked up the sign that he had been working on for hours.  _Closed for the day_ , it said. Mr Borgin had written it in his ugly writing and Pansy hoped it was clear enough for the customers to understand it. She used a Temporary Sticking Charm to glue it to the door and walked back to the back of the shop, switching off the light as she did so.

“Where do you think you are going?”

Pansy raised her eyes to stare at Mr Borgin. He was perched on the spiral staircase that led upstairs, his beady eyes staring intently at her.

“To bed,” she replied slowly, wondering if he needed her to do something else.

He shook his head slightly. “Not  _your_  bed,” he pointed out.

Pansy clutched her fingers around the handrail. She had hoped for one more night alone. Was he really not giving her that?

“You are a lucky, lucky girl,” he drawled sweetly.

Pansy swallowed. “Am I?” she asked softly.

He nodded. “I’m an old-fashioned gentleman,” he told her, “and I could never have you sleeping here the night before our wedding.”

Pansy let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. He didn’t want her to sleep with him, on the contrary, he didn’t want her to sleep under his roof at all. Thank Merlin! But Pansy felt stupid and frustrated as she thought those things, because she would have had to comply to what was expected of her the following night anyway.

“Where am I supposed to go, then?” she asked, half annoyed and half hopeful.

Mr Borgin smiled. “I have booked you a room at the Leaky Cauldron,” he told her. “Under my name.”

Pansy sighed. She knew she was not highly regarded at the Leaky Cauldron, not after she had overstayed her welcome right before Christmas. She shouldn’t have worried though, this time money was involved. At that thought, she frowned. He was spending money for a trivial matter such as tradition, she wondered if she hadn’t misjudged him all this time and he really was the gentleman he claimed to be. “Thank you,” she felt herself obliged to say.

He waved a hand dismissively. “You take your wedding dress with you and all you need for tomorrow,” he instructed her, “and tomorrow morning at nine you have to be at the Beheaded Witch. There is a room for you and your bridesmaid to change, so no need to parade for the streets in your dress.”

She wasn’t dreaming of it. She nodded softly.

Mr Borgin’s face became gentler. “You order anything you want to eat tonight and tomorrow morning,” he let her know, “and don’t worry about the money.”

She looked suspiciously at her future husband. Generosity wasn’t the first thing that came to mind when she thought of him.

“Now, off you go, girl,” he told her, clapping his hands. “Go get your dress and be a good girl until tomorrow.”

***

Pansy was right to believe that the she was not well-regarded in the inn in Diagon Alley. As soon as she walked inside, the eyes of the people working behind the counter stared at her with diffidence. She saw a man murmuring something to a fat, short woman and she nodded softly, coming towards the counter to meet her.

“Miss Parkinson,” the woman greeted her. “Did you forget something from last time?”

Pansy looked at her with hatred. “No,” she hissed. “I have a reservation.”

The woman raised both eyebrows and glanced sideways to the man. “I don’t think I’ve seen your name anywhere.”

“It’s under Borgin,” she gritted through her teeth. “Check, please.”

The woman looked icily at her and turned to collect a book. She checked it thoroughly and when her eyes looked back at Pansy she was smiling warmly. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she replied sweetly, “you are right. Borgin, here we are, and he paid in advance, and specifically gave us instructions to fulfil every desire you might have.” The woman’s plump face flushed a little. “Is there anything you want, Miss Parkinson?”

Pansy raised her chin haughtily. “I want to see my room,” she snapped coldly.

“Of course, of course,” replied the woman. She gestured to the man and told him to take her suitcase to room 15, on the third floor.

“Thank you,” hissed Pansy venomously. She really didn’t need to be harassed by the landlady of the Leaky Cauldron that night. She missed Tom, the late landlord. At least he had never kicked her out, even when she hadn’t paid a whole week. But these two… they were a couple of horrible people, and Pansy wondered how long they would last at the inn. Surely someone younger and nicer would come to buy it off their hands once they went bankrupt. She just knew it.

The man guided her up the stairs and towards a door that sported the number of the room that had been booked for her. “Here you go, Miss,” he told her, drawing out a key from his robe and handing it to her. “Call us if you need something.”

Pansy nodded curtly, turning her back to him and waiting for the sound of his steps to die out before turning the rusty key into the lock. The door opened with a creak and she walked in a dimly lit, but big room.

The first thing she did – much to her own surprise – was to take out her wedding dress from the suitcase. Madam Malkin’s anti-wrinkle charm was very effective, but somehow she was afraid that it could get ruined in there. She opened the wardrobe near the door and hung it in there, caressing the soft and shiny fabric with her hands.

“Aren’t you quite the sight?” someone sneered.

Pansy’s hand mechanically went to her pocket, clutching at her wand. Her back tensed and she swallowed noisily, her mouth suddenly dry. She turned quickly, her eyes scrutinising the room, searching for the owner of the voice. She thought she knew that sneer, but she couldn’t remember who it belonged to.

“My, my, won’t you make a fine-looking bride tomorrow?”

Pansy took a sharp breath. That voice. That arrogant, cold voice… “Lucius,” she whispered, lowering her wand.

There was a flick of a wand from the armchair near the window and all the candles in the room lit up. Pansy looked at Draco’s father with a blank expression over her face, her wand still in her hand. She didn’t dare to move.

Lucius gave her a small, relaxed smile. “Are you enjoying my present?” he asked her softly.

Pansy frowned. “Your present?” she asked puzzled.

Lucius looked amused at her. “Do you think your future husband would have paid for a room for you when he can have you sleeping in the shop?” he asked, and suddenly everything made sense to Pansy.

Lucius had paid for her room. “Thank you,” she murmured, still standing without moving.

Lucius crossed his legs. “I didn’t say it was my present for  _you_ ,” he corrected quietly.

Pansy shrugged a shoulder. “Well, thank you from Mr Borgin, then,” she muttered matter-of-factly. She was sure the man had already thanked Lucius extensively, but Mr Borgin’s thank-you’s always sounded so fake. 

“I didn’t say it was for him either,” he continued, licking his lips. “Come dear, sit.” He patted the side of the bed next to the armchair where he was sitting and Pansy walked slowly up to him. She sat and pocketed her wand in her black jeans.

“Is this for you, then?” she asked him and was happy to know that her annoyance, frustration and anticipation were all mixed together in her voice, perfectly masking each other.

Lucius didn’t reply. He flashed her a cunning smile and tapped his fingers on the armrests. “How is our dear Mr Borgin behaving?” he asked, almost like a father would do. “Is he being a gentleman as he keeps saying?”

Pansy cocked her head, glancing at Lucius. How did he know? Probably her puzzlement showed through her features because Lucius chuckled in amusement.

“I was at the shop two weeks ago,” he told her, “but you were away.” He looked at the dress. “Buying your bridal gown, apparently.”

Pansy nodded slowly.

Lucius smirked. “He kept saying what a good girl you are,” he told her with something close to viciousness in his voice, “and what a perfect gentleman he is.” He clicked his tongue. “Keeping his bride pure and virginal for his wedding night.”

Pansy looked away. “Are you here to mock me, Lucius?” she hissed, rage in her voice.

Lucius leaned forward and placed a big, warm hand on her thigh, squeezing gently. “I think you know why I am here, Pansy,” he murmured almost sweetly.

She didn’t move. Even if she wanted to slap his hand away, she knew better than to anger Lucius Malfoy. She turned to look darkly at him. “Then why don’t we get this over with?” she asked bitterly.

Lucius released her. “My,” he purred softly. “So eager.”

Pansy looked away again. Her jaw set, she gritted her teeth. Well, wasn’t he a piece of work? She still remembered the first time he had made her sit on his lap in his study at the Manor. She was still underage, only a child of twelve, but that didn’t stop him from ravishing her body. Au contraire, he seemed to be aroused by her inexperience and her still undeveloped figure. His soft hands that had never known work had grabbed her waist and touched her in places where she had never been touched. His clothed erection had insinuated itself between her legs and he had thrust against her as he kept her still. He had come in his trousers, and at that time she didn’t even understand what had happened. But after she had given her virginity to Draco he had found it fitting to claim her body for himself whenever he felt like having a quickie against the wall of his study or a steamy few hours in her bed.

Now, all these memories came flooding back into her mind, and she winced. She had never liked his hands on her and she had never liked his sweaty body crushing hers as she waited for him to come. It was only when she understood that she held as much power on him as he held on her that she started to enjoy their encounters a bit more.

She was still terrified that Draco would have found out, and Lucius seemed to know her worries fully well as he used to tell her that he would have informed his son about what an eager little slut she was if she didn’t suck him or come for him or let him touch her where he wanted. But at the same time, she knew she could tell him that she was going to scream to let his wife know what he was doing if his fingers became too rough or if he was pushing into her without preparing her first. He had smirked at her first sign of rebellion, but he didn’t strike her as she had expected.

“So,” he resumed, “how’s Mr Borgin?”

Pansy looked at him with annoyance. Why did he want to talk about him? “Tedious,” she replied half-heartedly, she had thousands of other adjectives for him, but didn’t particularly care to let him know about them. He wouldn’t have given her a pitiful look like Draco, but she didn’t need him to laugh at her misfortune either.

Lucius chuckled. “Well, isn’t he?” he smirked. “With that name.”

Pansy frowned at the man. He had lost her.

“Oh, my dear Pansy,” he drawled sweetly, “you haven’t used your swift mind in a while, have you? You used to be so much wittier.”

The witch didn’t need her wit to understand that he was calling her slow.

“Borgin is ‘boring’, you just move the letters around a bit,” he told her.

Pansy looked unimpressed. She knew what an anagram was, thank you very much.

“It’s our dear Astoria,” he continued, “she is so very interested in word games.” He looked at her with piercing, grey eyes. “She amuses us awfully.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Good to know,” she muttered, before taking a deep breath. “Tell me how you want me, Lucius, so I can go to sleep.”

Lucius glared at her. “You make it sound so cheap, silly girl,” he growled. “I could almost decide not to give you my wedding present.”

Pansy brushed aside a lock of hair. “I thought you already did,” she hissed, gesturing towards the room.

“I told you,” he replied quietly, “this is for me.” He put his hand in his pocket, drawing out a little ampoule with a thick dark liquid inside. “This is for you,” he added, showing her the bottle.

Pansy looked from Lucius to the ampoule and back. “Poison to take me out of my misery?” she asked flatly.

Lucius looked amused. “No,” he replied, “this is what you’ll want more than anything tomorrow.”

The girl frowned again. She was tired, confused and aggravated. She just wanted to order something to eat and go to bed. She was in no mood for riddles. “What is it, Lucius?” she asked heatedly.

Lucius smirked. “Mr Borgin would be livid to know that his wife has not kept herself intact for her wedding night,” he replied. “Have you ever seen him livid before?”

Pansy nodded. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. She grabbed the ampoule from Lucius’ hand and looked at it more closely. She used to be good at brewing potions but she didn’t recognise this one at all. “So, what does this do?” she asked.

Lucius leaned back against the armchair. “Let’s say that if you were to take it now and then _I_  took you, you would have to drink it again,” he told her.

She sighed. “What?” She tried to work out his riddle. “Does it make it feel like I’m a virgin again?” she asked tentatively

Lucius shook his head. “It’s a Purifying Potion,” he told her simply, “it does make you a virgin again.”

Pansy groaned at the thought. Her first time had hurt so bad. And most of the times after that too, since that ‘you’re so tight’ that Draco loved so much to whisper to her only meant that before finding her pleasure she was always in pain.

“He is expecting you to be a virgin,” Lucius scolded her gently, probably reading her discomfort on her face, “I don’t think you would like to anger a man like Borgin on his wedding night.”

Pansy shrugged. “I’m not afraid of him,” she let him know nonchalantly.

Lucius smirked. “I know, Pansy,” he assured her in an almost fatherly-like way. “But he is not one to accept defiance from your part from now on.”

Pansy bit her bottom lip, she looked down at the ampoule again and nodded. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

“Now,” he continued, his voice louder, “I would love to see you in that dress of yours.” He nodded towards the wedding dress.

She cocked her head and looked at him. “Then you’ll have to wait till tomorrow,” she replied resolutely.

“I’m not coming tomorrow,” he chuckled amused.

Pansy wasn’t surprised. “Is my wedding too low class for you?”

“Indeed,” he replied matter-of-factly. “Draco is coming, though.”

Pansy nodded. She knew it. She didn’t need to say anything.

“If I can’t have you in the dress,” he added and Pansy was grateful that he had dropped the matter. “I want you naked.” She felt his eyes on her and braced herself. “Now,” he growled when she didn’t move.

She glared at him for the urgency in his voice. Standing from the bed, she brought her hands to the hem of her jumper, grabbing it, she made it slide up her body, until it was over her head and off of her.

She shook her hair away from her face and looked at Lucius. His grey eyes had darkened with lust and she noticed that his hand was caressing his erection through his trousers. 

“Get undressed,” he growled.

Pansy looked away to be able to roll her eyes without him seeing her. She started to undo the buttons of her white shirt. She was slow, teasingly slow. She liked to tease him, to see his impatience on his face, to have the power to make him angry.

He didn’t seem to want to be teased, though. There was a white light that shot from his wand and she sucked in her breath as the last buttons of her shirt and the upper part of her jeans tore. Buttons falling on the floor and her white stomach suddenly exposed.

“Hey!” she exclaimed heatedly. “I need this tomorrow to go to the Beheaded Witch.”

Lucius smirked, his member was now out of his trousers and his hand was touching it lightly, as if he wanted to wait for her to make it completely hard. “I’m sure a skilled witch like you, Pansy, can perform a simple Mending Charm.”

Pansy glared at him. Her hands went to her shirt and she pushed it off her shoulders, then she kicked off her shoes and slid out of her jeans. She raised her eyes on him. She still had her underwear on, but his eyes made her feel like she was naked already. He licked his lips appreciatively.

“Naked,” he ordered her when she took her time to take off her white, plain, unattractive bra and coordinated knickers. She let her underwear fall on the floor without a sound.

He growled. “Still delicious, aren’t you?” He offered a hand to her and she grabbed it. He pulled her tiny body to him, making her sit on his thigh with her legs between his. He cupped one of her breasts and kissed her. It was a rough, demanding and lustful kiss. It was different from Draco’s.

She sucked in her breath. She didn’t want to think about Draco. She didn’t. It made everything more painful than it already was.

She shifted on Lucius’ leg when the hand that wasn’t fondling her breast slithered south and found her clit. She squirmed against his lips and she felt him smirk in response, while he pushed one finger between her still dry folds and tried to make her wet. She had to grab his wrist when he added another finger and became a bit more explorative. He chuckled, released her mouth and lowered his head, nipping lightly at the sensitive spot under her ear. She stifled a moan, she didn’t want him to know that what he was doing felt so…  _good_.

He withdrew his hand and pushed her softly off his leg. Making her kneel between his thighs. He looked at her meaningfully and she lowered her eyes on his member.  _It’s going to hurt less later_ , she reminded herself.

Pansy placed her small hand around the base and straightened her back up to manage to lower her head on his shaft. She flicked her tongue on his foreskin and heard him groan. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw his hands gripping the armrests. She parted her lips and took him in her mouth, her tongue caressing it gently as she swallowed as much of his length as possible without gagging. She came back up and released him with a pop. He thrust imperceptibly towards her and she took him in again, sucking in earnest now, her head bobbing up and down.

His grunts became louder when she took him deep in her throat. She felt his fingers enlacing in her hair, but he didn’t push her towards his groin and she was grateful. She brought the hand which wasn’t already touching him to his balls and massaged them slowly. He moaned at the stimulation, his fingers gripping her raven hair with force, and suddenly he pulled her back with a yank, letting her fall with her buttocks on her heels.

He wasted no time. He bent over her and grabbed her waist, raised her off the floor and onto his lap, facing him, each leg at his side. She felt his knuckles against her thigh as he gripped his erection and aligned it to her entrance.

He brought a hand to her waist and guided her towards him. He didn’t thrust up, but he didn’t let her take control. She felt a subtle pain, but he was slick with her saliva and she was wet and his erection slid in her without much effort. When he was buried in her to the hilt he stopped. She looked down at him to see him staring at her with lust-filled eyes. He leaned over and kissed her, more gently than before. She raised her hands on his shoulders and gripped the black robe he was wearing. That was what he liked, she knew it well, when she was completely naked and he was fully dressed. Pansy exposed to his mercy and Lucius in control of the situation.

He grabbed her waist with both hands and tilted his head back. He looked into her eyes and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. “Ride me.”

She complied. He guided her at first, but then slowly his hands slid on her hips and let her take control of the movements. Now there was no pain for her, just pleasure and desire to come.

He thrust up to meet her every time she pushed down and soon they were both bucking against each other. Pansy felt his fingers push deeper in her flesh and knew that he was close. She tried to increase her pace, but he stilled her instead. He gripped her waist and guided her in a back and forth motion that sent electricity through every part of her body. Her clit was rubbing against the base of his erection every time he pulled her to him.

She started to pant, her hand clutching more forcefully at his clothes as Lucius’ palms slid on her back and he pushed her against his chest. She could feel the soft material of his robes under her breasts and found herself longing for the touch of skin on skin. His forceful grip stilled her completely, trapping her against his chest, he started to thrust up into her in earnest then. She scrunched her eyes up, her orgasm sending her into a state of bliss that made her toes curl.

He didn’t stop thrusting into her, even when her walls contracted around him and she let out a cry of ecstasy. It was only when she came down from the wave of pleasure that she could feel him slowing his thrusts down, he hugged her even more tightly and buried his head in her hair. He growled loudly and squirted his semen inside of her. She could feel the thick, warm liquid coating her insides.

He kept clutching her against himself, as if afraid she would have jolted away now that it was over. His chest pressed almost painfully against her sensitive nipples every time he took a ragged breath.

Pansy almost liked the way he held her, she felt… protected. It didn’t last long, though. He released her and raised her from his lap, his spent member popping out of her folds with a lewd sound. She took a couple of steps back, unstable on her legs.

He smirked at her, satisfied. He tucked his member back into his trousers and cleaned himself from their fluids, his face regaining that cold composure that he always wore. That face that made her feel so used.

“Borgin is such a lucky bastard,” he muttered quietly. “Too bad I don’t sleep with married women.”

Pansy looked away and rolled her eyes. His moral principles made her laugh.

He stood up and towered over her. “Maybe when he is dead.” He grazed her left nipple with his fingers. “And if you’re still delectable.”

She stubbornly kept her eyes away from him until he grabbed her chin and made her look at him. He kissed her roughly one more time before stepping back from her.

“Congratulations for your wedding, Miss Parkinson,” he leered mockingly, before Disapparating with a pop in front of her eyes.

Finally alone, Pansy collapsed on the bed. She wasn’t hungry anymore. She just wanted to clean herself and sleep. She grabbed her wand, pointed it to her lower abdomen and scoured herself clean. She flipped the covers and crawled on the bed.

The last thought that flashed in her mind was about Draco and how much she wanted him to come and, at the same time, not to come to her wedding. Then she fell into a restless sleep.

***

Astoria looked ravishing. Despite his hatred for her, Draco had to admit that she was gorgeous. Her long, brown curls were pulled up in a complicated hairdo that left her neck bare, a silver headband with flowers and pearls keeping her hair in place. She was wearing a short, silvery dress. It was tight around her slim figure, hugging her curves sensually. She had a real, black fox fur collar around her shoulders and high heeled black shoes at her feet. She was wearing a set of jewellery that had belonged to the Malfoys for generations, pendant earrings with an emerald surrounded by diamonds and coordinated necklace. She had a small clutch bag in her hands, a little thing that had arrived the day before from Milan.

“How do I look?” she asked, looking at Draco with a smile upon her face.

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Like a Malfoy,” he replied emotionlessly. “Whoever manages to kidnap you can live like a king by selling just one your accessories.”

Astoria grinned more broadly. “I’m lucky I have you to protect me,” she purred to her husband.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I doubt you need protection, Astoria,” he told her coldly, knowing she was a wolf in sheep clothes.

Astoria smirked softly, her dark eyes lightening with malice. She opened her mouth to tell him something, but was prevented by a knock on their bedroom door.

“Come in,” replied Draco, doing up his dinner jacket.

Narcissa and one of the many house-elves that worked in the Manor came in. The house-elf, a small female with big eyes, was carrying a beautifully wrapped present over her head.

“Master asked for present, Sir,” squealed the house-elf adoringly. “Libby brings present to Master.” The house-elf snapped her fingers and another smaller package appeared on top of the bigger present. “Libby brings Mistress Narcissa’s present too.”

Draco looked from the small package to his mother. “What is it?” he asked icily, he knew – he just knew – it couldn’t be anything good.

Narcissa smiled languidly. “Something she will need soon,” she smirked, before turning her attention to Astoria. “My dear, you look gorgeous.” She walked up to her to brush a curl from her forehead and smiled. “I don’t think it’s good manners to look better than the bride,” she added with malice, “but in this case I’m sure no one will object.”

Draco felt a familiar rage boiling inside of him. Here she was, his mother, the only person who could use a compliment to make him want to hex her. “You haven’t seen Pansy in nearly six years,” he reminded her coldly.

“But I remember her,” replied Narcissa unkindly.

Astoria beamed at her. “And I’m more beautiful than she is?” she asked as if she was a child, faking naïveté in her voice.

“Indeed,” replied Narcissa with a smile that was all for the girl.

Draco gritted his teeth. Astoria was beautiful, no doubt there, but Pansy was something different. He didn’t want her because of her bony hips or small breasts, her pale complexion or dark hair. He wanted her because… He shook his head. He didn’t even know why he wanted her, he just did.

He finished buttoning up his jacket and checked his reflection in the mirror. He looked sharp, he thought, and he was confident that there was no rule about looking better than the groom. “We should get ready to Apparate,” he announced, without looking at Astoria. “We are going to be late.”

Astoria caressed her plush fur coat. “Fashionably late,” she purred.

Draco set his jaw. He turned and glared at her. “We are leaving,” he growled. He grabbed the presents and walked out of the door. Without turning to wait for his wife, he marched briskly towards the stairs.

“Send Pansy my love,” murmured a voice behind him.

Draco stiffened slightly. “I’ll do it, Father,” he replied curtly, without turning. He didn’t even know if he would manage to talk to Pansy, let alone give her his father’s love.

He heard Astoria and Narcissa’s steps at his back. They stopped where his father should have been standing and he heard a soft kiss being pecked. “Good bye, Lucius,” purred Astoria sweetly, “we will see you tonight.”

Draco resumed his walking, he climbed down the stairs and stopped in the hall. Astoria was closely behind him. She looked as happy as he had never seen her before, and he felt a rush of detestation so powerfully strong that it took him a lot of self-control not to slap that pretty, made up face of hers. Astoria just couldn’t wait to see Pansy getting married to an old, greasy man like Borgin. Her arch-nemesis locked away in a flat in Knockturn Alley, away from Draco’s touch. The thought of never being able to see her again after that day hassled him, but it was very probably that same thought that made Astoria look like she was under a Cheering Charm.

“Where is it taking place again?” she asked, smoothening her dress.

“The Beheaded Witch,” he replied curtly, “in Knockturn Alley.”

Astoria rolled her eyes in a very snobbish way. “So low class,” she sentenced.

Draco didn’t reply. He knew it, and he agreed with her, but there was no way he would have ever admitted it. He gripped the two presents tightly and offered his wife an arm. She took it, her hand grabbing the bend of his elbow.

Draco felt the uncomfortable sensation of being pulled from every part and everything went black around him. It was a question of mere seconds and he found himself, alongside his wife, in what looked like a dark and dodgy hall. It looked a bit like a more sinister version of the Leaky Cauldron, with ugly, suspicious witches and wizards walking about. Draco knew it was no place for someone dressed like Astoria, but he wasn’t surprised when he looked at her and saw a relaxed smile on her lips instead of a worried frown.

A short, hunchbacked wizard wrapped in a shapeless dark robe limped his way towards them and bowed with difficulty in front of Draco. “Here for the wedding?” he asked, his voice a low grumble.

Draco nodded haughtily.

“Follow me,” he drawled, turning slowly and guiding them to a dimly lit staircase. He started to climb the steps, moaning in pain every now and then. He was so slow that Draco considered to tell him to teach them the way, but he didn’t want his impatience to be mistaken for kindness, so he followed silently in the man’s steps. Luckily, he didn’t have to speak, for the man stopped after a couple of flights of stairs. “Top floor,” he panted, “just follow the stairs.”

“Thank you,” chirped Astoria in that cheerful tone that she had had for the whole day.

They walked past the man and up the stairs. There were at least another three floors between the ground and the top floor, two seemed to be filled with rooms that showed that the Beheaded Witch was not only a pub, but an inn. The third one had a few doors, but none with numbers on them.

As they went up, Draco could hear Astoria panting behind him, in her high heels and tight dress, she probably didn’t expect to have to climb so many stairs. He didn’t expect it either, but he was surely more comfortable in his dinner suit than she could ever be, and he smirked at the knowledge.

The top floor looked better than Draco had expected. House-elves were running here and there, putting up flowers – pansies, Draco noticed with amusement – and decorations, setting the chairs in a certain order, stacking the presents one above the other on a table in a corner, bringing cheap wine to the few guests already present.

“Sir wants a glass of wine?” asked a house-elf as he snatched the present from Draco’s hands and made it levitate to the table. “And Madam?”

“Yes,” replied Draco curtly, looking down at the creature. Another elf hurried towards them, two glasses in his hands. Astoria looked crestfallen that she had to take a glass that had been touched by one of those creatures, but accepted it as gracefully as possible.

“I wonder how many guests there are going to be,” murmured Astoria, keeping the glass as far from her lips as possible.

“Just the ones you see,” answered a voice at their back.

Draco turned to find himself in front of a tall, old man dressed in a fancy, Wizarding robe, with his hair combed neatly on his head. He looked extremely calm. Draco didn’t know him.

“But this is such a small crowd,” whined Astoria, certainly unhappy that her effort to look better than the bride would have to be witnessed by only a handful of people.

“Mostly Mr Borgin’s acquaintances,” the man explained, “Miss Parkinson didn’t seem to have that many connections.”

“What a pity,” chirped Astoria with a sly smile.

Draco diverted his eyes from her and looked around himself. There were so few guests that he could have counted them on his fingers and toes. Of course, there was no sign of Pansy yet, but Mr Borgin was missing too. He checked the time and saw that it was still relatively early. The wedding wouldn’t start until another thirty-five minutes. He had time to maybe explore the place and find out where the bride was hiding.

He didn’t recognise anybody in there. Were they the only people that Pansy had invited? Him and Astoria? Was it possible that there was no Millicent Bulstrode, Theodore Nott, Blaise Zabini or Tracey Davies? Had Mr Borgin forbidden her to invite people because he didn’t want too many mouths to feed? Draco wouldn’t be surprised.

There was a black dressed couple in a corner, shooting him glares every now and then and drinking greedily from their glasses; an old woman with icy blue eyes was standing next to them and nodding at their words every now and then. On the other side of the room, there were four people talking loudly about how long the ceremony would take, and how they hoped the food was good. There was an old hag already sitting in a chair, her ugly face looking intently at the stage where the wedding would take place. Other people were standing here and there and the average age seemed to be closer to that of Mr Borgin rather than Pansy’s.

“No, no,” growled a voice that Draco finally recognised, “I don’t want any more of that disgusting wine. Get off me.”

He turned just in time to see a tall, dark figure disappearing down the stairs. He sighed in relief. Blaise. At least there was someone he knew amongst these people. Draco glanced sideways to Astoria, she was still deep in conversation with the man and he wondered what they could be talking about that was so interesting to her. Probably, he just seemed the most civilised of the guests and she didn’t want to let him go.

Draco carelessly put his unfinished glass of wine on a table and walked behind his wife’s back, he was careful not to meet the wizard’s eyes as he followed Blaise down the stairs. He met a fat, short man with a red face and beady eyes, who seemed out of breath and stopped to ask Draco how long before the top floor. He looked relieved to know that he was almost there.

A few steps later, Draco was reaching the third floor of the inn, the one without rooms. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Blaise. The tall, young wizard had his right ear pushed against a door, and was knocking softly but insistently on it. He was also muttering something under his breath, but Draco couldn’t quite catch it.

“Blaise,” he called him, walking towards him.

Blaise’s eyes shot up in his direction. At first, he looked startled, but when he saw Draco he seemed to relax. “Draco,” he called him, moving back from the door to shake his friend’s hand.

“You need the loo?” asked Draco, smirking and nodding towards the door.

Blaise looked from him to the door. “What?” he asked puzzled. “Oh, the loo,” he added suddenly, “yes, yes… why not?”

Draco furrowed his brow. “Well, how are you?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Well, you never invite me in that castle of yours,” replied Blaise, shrugging his shoulders.

“It’s a Manor,” Draco corrected him, “and you can come whenever you want.”

Blaise scratched his temple softly. “Yeah,” he snorted, “tell me when the Missus is out of town, okay?”

Draco sighed. That day would never come because Astoria was never out of town, and when she was Draco was with her. “So,” he started, “was it the wine?” He nodded towards the door.

“What?” asked Blaise, looking a bit uneasy.

“Was the wine so bad that you need the loo already?” Draco crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, he had drunk a bit of that wine, maybe he should have used the toilet as well.

Blaise swallowed. “I—” But his voice was cut off by someone walking out of the door.

“Draco!” squeaked Millicent with delight. She was wearing a hideous orange dress, tight around her generous curves and low on her décolleté. She was covered in heavy make-up and looked like a pumpkin to Draco.

“Millicent,” he acknowledged her half-heartedly. “Nice to see you.”

Millicent smiled her stupid smile. “You look so handsome,” she purred, patting Draco’s chest.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Leave him alone,” he told her harshly, “he is married.”

Millicent giggled, then turned her attention to the tall boy. “We need to be quick,” she grinned, trying to sound sensual. Then she looked at Draco. “I’m the bridesmaid, did you know?”

Draco shook his head.

“Enough chatting,” growled Blaise, grabbing her plump arm and dragging her away. Draco looked disgusted at the couple as he came to the realisation of what was about to happen between the two of them.

“Don’t judge me,” Blaise groaned over his shoulder.

Millicent giggled, as if she was oblivious to the fact that that was not a compliment. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to look at Draco. “Don’t go in there, Draco,” she chirped with a smile, “Pansy is not ready, yet.”

He saw Blaise turning to whisper something in her ear and she giggled even more, then he caught the eye of his friend looking from him to the door and raising his eyebrows, as if to encourage him to go in.

The sound of their steps faded away when they turned a corner and disappeared from Draco’s view. Then he heard a door opening and shutting and Millicent’s giggles died out as well. Draco turned his attention towards the door at his left. The one that Millicent had just opened. Pansy was in there. She was getting ready. That meant only one thing, he knew what a traditional man Borgin was, surely he didn’t want to see his bride before the wedding. Surely, he would have never walked in there.

Draco swallowed. He looked resolutely at the door, his hand going to the handle. He had to see her, at least one last time before she became Mrs Borgin. He pushed the door open and, to his surprise, it didn’t creak. He slid inside as quietly as possible, closing the door at his back.

Pansy was there.

She was giving him her back. She was standing in front of a full length mirror, her head tilted as she carefully put on a pendant earring. Draco felt his heart swell. She was stunning. The dress that wrapped her body so very beautifully, her hair pulled up in a complicated braid and adorned with white roses, her red, red lips and white complexion, everything made Draco want to steal her from  _him_.

“Millie, I told you I don’t need any help, here,” she murmured vaguely annoyed, “you should go upstairs and check that…” Her words trailed away when she turned and met Draco’s eyes. She looked at him with her delectable lips parted in a subtly surprised expression.

Draco felt his heart beating a bit quicker in his chest. He wondered what was wrong with him, he felt as if he was looking at her for the first time. He swallowed. “You look beautiful,” he whispered in an almost reverential tone.

Pansy didn’t seem to have any reply for him. She took a deep breath and her shoulders hunched a bit, as if suddenly she was incredibly tired. “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered back.

Draco cocked his head. “You invited me,” he replied simply.

Pansy shook her head, the earring grazing at her neck with every movement. “You shouldn’t be  _in_  here.”

He took a step towards her and she shook her head, her eyes still on his. He kept walking until he was standing a few inches from her and she kept shaking her head as if to silently plead him to stop. Her eyes were big and filled with uncertainty, and it looked as if she could have started crying any time. He had never seen her cry in all his life, and he certainly didn’t want her to start now.

Draco raised his hands and placed them gently on her waist. She seemed a bit more fleshy than he remembered, but maybe it was the dress. He liked that for once, when he touched her, bones were not stabbing him back.

“Draco…” she murmured.

Draco looked down at her. Suddenly, he felt nervous, as if this girl was not Pansy, the Pansy he knew so well, the Pansy whose body he had studied every single Wednesday for years. She was more beautiful than ever, but that was not it. She looked different, she looked… fragile. He had never seen her looking so delicate and defeated. Her makeup wasn’t able to hide her sorrow.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmured to her. He leaned down slowly and planted a soft kiss on her lips. He was slightly taken aback when she puckered her lips to answer him.

She brought her hands to his back, but to his surprise it wasn’t to deepen the kiss. She withdrew from his mouth and hugged him tightly, leaning her head on his chest. Draco couldn’t do anything but slide his arms around her body and hug her back, her petite figure crushed against him.

He was careful not to lean his head against her hair, even if he wanted to, she would have probably reduced him to smoke with her glare if he ruined her hairdo. They stood there for what Draco thought was an eternity, their soft, regular breathing the only sound in the room. It was only when she shifted slightly against him that he released her from his arms.

She looked up at him and withdrew. Her makeup was still perfect, probably spelled to look perfect through the whole day. She turned, picked up a second earring and gave him her back. She stood in front of the mirror, glancing at his reflection and trying to put the piece of jewellery in her ear.

Slowly, as if she would have shied away if he scared her, Draco came to stand behind her. He encircled her belly with his arms and lowered his head next to her ear. “I need you,” he growled huskily, one of his hands finding its way towards her lower abdomen. “I need to feel you.”

Pansy looked away from the mirror. “I can’t,” she replied in a faint whisper. “I really can’t.”

Draco felt a slight anger rising inside of him. She was there, teasingly beautiful, and wouldn’t let him have his way with her. “Is your wedding day too good for this?” he asked harshly. “You didn’t have a problem at mine.”

Pansy looked at him with a great deal of pain in her eyes. “If I could, I would,” she replied simply. She opened her lips as if she were going to add something. To plead maybe? Was she really going to plead him to let her go?

He kept his eyes on her reflection and withdrew, his hands releasing her body. What was wrong? How could she pass up on such an opportunity? He was so turned on at the sight of her wedding dress and at how perfect she looked in it that he could barely speak. Was she still mad at him? Still because of the necklace? He could have said that he was sorry ten thousand times if that helped him to get into her knickers. He doubted it would have though.

Pansy turned to look at him. Her second earring in place. She looked so miserable it almost made him sad. She walked to Draco and hugged him again. Her naked arms squeezing his body delicately. “I need you too,” she breathed.

Draco relaxed his muscles in the embrace. He hugged her back and tried not to think at his member stirring at the contact to her body. She smelled so good, she looked so good, she was so very exciting, but it was her sadness and fragility that just made him want to keep her forever in his arms. It was at that very moment that Draco was hit with force by the revelation that he didn’t want her to marry Mr Borgin.

“Miss Parkinson,” called a voice at Draco’s back. “They are waiting for you.”

Draco was the first one to step back, he turned to face the same man he had left deep in conversation with his wife. 

“I…” Draco cleared his throat to find a good excuse that would explain his proximity to Pansy. “I was just congratulating the bride,” he let him know haughtily. Did he have the courage to contradict him?

The man nodded, uninterested in Draco. His stern eyes held a weird sparkle as he looked at Pansy, like something close to pity. “Miss Parkinson,” he repeated, “shall we go?”

Pansy nodded. She looked at the wizard and walked to him to take his arm. She only glanced at Draco when they walked out of the door, a soft, scared smile on her face.

***

Draco missed the very beginning of the ceremony. He had needed a quick stop in the loo to take care of his arousal. He had closed his eyes and imagined Pansy in her wedding dress, but most importantly Pansy out of her wedding dress.

He walked into the hall the moment the wizard was giving Pansy away to Mr Borgin. He hurried to where Astoria was sitting and avoided looking into her surely condemning eyes. He did cast her a sideway glance, though, and was happy to notice that her previous happiness had completely disappeared from her face. Now she was looking at Pansy with the same hatred she had felt that summer, six years before, when they were both staying at the Manor.

Draco just simply couldn’t resist when he whispered cruelly, “She is gorgeous, isn’t she?”

Astoria didn’t reply, she sucked in her breath and stiffened. Her eyes fixed on the bride and her gracious movements.

Draco smirked and returned his attention to the ceremony, but found out that he couldn’t bear to look at Pansy’s white back as she said yes, exchanged rings, got her hand wrapped in a ribbon above Mr Borgin’s and was finally declared a wife by the Magical Law. When Mr Borgin finally pulled her in for a kiss he felt his heart clutched by iron fingers. He closed his fists on his thighs and had to divert his eyes as he heard Astoria giggling softly and clapping her hands with the other guests.

It was only when they walked through the aisle between the few chairs that he dared to look up again. She seemed to have forced a smile on her face to please her husband. Mr Borgin was grasping at her tiny waist with his dirty hands and he didn’t like it. Merlin, he just wanted to take her away from him.

It took Draco a few moments to notice that the banquet – or buffet as it was more appropriate to call it – would be held in the same room where they were at that very moment. House-elves hurried about to move the furniture around to create a long, U-shaped table. Instead of having small tables, all the guests were seated at Borgin and Pansy’s sides.

From his chair, at Pansy’s far right, Draco was finally forced to have a good look at Mr Borgin. He looked like he had put a lot of effort in his attire. He was wearing a black, fancy Wizarding robe, his greasy hair was combed back on his small head and he looked overall cleaner than usual. Still, Draco felt sick every time the guests chanted for them to kiss and his disgusting mouth enveloped Pansy’s red lips. Astoria was always the first to giggle, followed closely by Millicent, only for different reasons.

Dinner was hideous. Half-cooked stew, tasteless potatoes, warm wine. Astoria looked delighted every time another failure was brought forth from the kitchen. Pansy looked mortified.

At Draco’s right, Blaise coughed up a generous chunk of frozen meat. “Merlin,” he muttered, washing his mouth with some disgusting wine. “I should have brought my own food.”

“I’ve never agreed with you more, Blaise,” chimed Astoria in from Draco’s left.

The only person who seemed to enjoy the dishes was Millicent, gobbling down anything they were putting in front of her from her seat next to Pansy. Draco was glad that at least she seemed to reassure Pansy a little about the taste of the cooking.

In addition to being tasteless, the dinner was also short. An ugly-looking cake was brought forth while the guests were still trying to hide the food under their plates. The cake was not that bad, but it was too small to feed them all.

When the music started to play, Draco could only see the relief on Pansy’s face before the tables were vanished and Mr Borgin dragged her to the middle of the room. He looked at his guests as he stood in the middle of the dance floor. “I’m afraid Mrs Borgin’s father couldn’t make it today,” he announced, and Pansy flinched at the name. “So we shall skip the father-daughter dance and start with the bride and groom, yes?”

There was a murmur of agreement and then a painfully slow song started. Mr Borgin grabbed Pansy’s waist and guided her in an awkward dance. Draco remembered her at the Yule Ball, she was good and could have showed it to her guests if only Borgin would get out of the way and let her dance with someone else. With him, maybe.

When the music ended most people clapped their hands with composure, Astoria and Millicent clapped a bit louder than the others. Then, immediately, another song started and almost all of the older guests were on the dance floor. Draco imagined that his wife would have wanted to join them and he turned to tell her off before she could even ask. To his surprise, Astoria wasn’t by his side anymore.

Frowning, his eyes travelled for the room, searching for her. And there she was, it was hard not to find her, she was the youngest in the room and the least dressed. His heart sunk when he noticed that she was standing next to Pansy, talking to her with her usual fake sweet expression on her face. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it was surely something venomous because Pansy was glaring icily at her.

He stepped towards them. It looked like Pansy had already had a difficult day. She didn’t need the little demon to take care of her as well.

“It was a nice ceremony, Pansy,” Draco lied, walking between her and his wife.

Pansy looked up at him, clearly without believing a word he said. “Thank you,” she murmured gratefully.

“Such an adorable ceremony indeed,” echoed Astoria cheerfully, “and I’m also sure you saved a lot of money for it, didn’t you? I’m sure that can only be good.”

If a glare could kill, Astoria would be dead and Draco and Pansy would have had to share the guilt.

“I’m glad you think so, Astoria,” replied Pansy frostily.

Astoria nodded. “And where are you going for your honeymoon?” she asked sweetly.

Pansy bit her bottom lip. “We are not going anywhere,” she replied stiffly.

“I’m sure it’s a hassle to travel nowadays,” Draco came to her rescue.

Pansy looked at him, eyes silently pleading to take his wife away from her.

“And how many babies do you think you will have?”

Draco turned to snap at her. “Astoria!”

“What?” asked Astoria, faking naïveté. “Didn’t he marry her for that?” She looked at Pansy her eyes big with counterfeit surprise. “Or was it for love?”

Draco turned to look at Pansy, an apologetic smile on his lips. “I’m afraid my wife had a bit too much to drink,” he let her know. “I think it’s time for us to go home.”

To his surprise, even though he couldn’t really blame her, Pansy looked relieved to hear that he was leaving. On the other hand, Astoria started to pout. “I want to stay,” she whined in an almost child-like voice.

Draco grabbed her arm forcefully, leaning down to whisper in her ear, “You are coming home, go get your stuff.”

She wiggled free of his hand and glared at him. Then, without looking at Pansy, she walked away to retrieve her things.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the bride. He looked hopefully at her. “Are you free on Wednesday?” He grinned softly.

Pansy looked at him as if he was out of his mind, but she didn’t reply. She just came closer to him, put a hand on his shoulder and stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for coming,” she murmured mechanically.

“I want a kiss too,” cried Astoria cheerfully, pulling Draco away from her the moment she returned.

Pansy looked warily at her, but leaned towards her to kiss her cheek. Draco only saw her lips on his wife’s skin, then Pansy’s eyes widened and she withdrew as if Astoria was made of fire. Astoria looked up at her with a satisfied grin on her face, then she turned and walked towards the stairs. Draco looked at Pansy one last time, but she didn’t look back at him.

He turned and followed Astoria, catching up with her, he grabbed her arm and made her turn. “What did you tell her?” he hissed venomously.

Astoria smirked so evilly that she almost scared him. “Women’s stuff,” she replied emotionlessly and Draco felt the familiar tug of Apparition as she took control and brought them both home.

***

“I can’t believe you had sex with Millie,” muttered Pansy, her tone more amused than accusatory.

Blaise placed his warm hands on her waist and they swayed with the music. He pretended to be shocked. “Who said I did such a thing?” he asked.

Pansy snorted. “Millie,” she told him, as they danced.

Blaise rolled his eyes. “For your information,” he let her know, “it was not sex, it was just a blow job.”

It was Pansy’s turn to roll her eyes.

“It was a win-win really,” he added nonchalantly. “I had her sucking me and she couldn’t talk because she had something in her mouth.”

Pansy shook her head, a small smile on her lips. “I thought you didn’t like Millie.”

Blaise shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t have to look at her,” he confessed with a grin, “I close my eyes and I can imagine her being whoever I want.” He looked at her for a long, meaningful moment. Pansy had to look away. “Plus, she was the only available girl at your wedding.” He smirked. “I don’t think Draco would have liked me to have a go at his wife,” he added, probably taking for granted that he had a shot with Astoria. He brought a hand to her face to caress her cheek affectionately. “And I’m sure the bride is off-limit too, Parkinson.”

Pansy stopped moving her feet. She was not a Parkinson anymore. It almost hurt her to hear her former surname and to think that she would have to correct people who called her that from that moment on. She looked up at Blaise, unable to find the words to rectify him, her eyes big and unsecure.

“I mean, B-Borgin,” he stammered tentatively, only to make Pansy feel even more aghast at that name. “I mean, Pansy,” he finally muttered, “yeah, why don’t I call you Pansy?” He gave her a small smile and squeezed his fingers on her waist, starting to dance again.

“Why indeed,” she murmured.

“You know,” Blaise continued, “you look ravishing today.” He smirked. “I’m jealous of the man who will  _ravish_  you tonight.”

Pansy looked away. Blaise knew so well how to use words to hurt someone, and she usually enjoyed that until she was the victim of his teasing. She withdrew from him and she could feel his hands trying to stop her, but with not enough force. “Sorry,” she murmured coldly, “my feet hurt.” She looked up at him. “But thank you for dancing with me.”

Blaise looked sincerely abashed, but she couldn’t care less. She turned and walked away. She wanted to talk to Millie for a while, the only other person she knew there. Even if the plump witch usually managed to irritate her with every single word she spoke, at least she was her friend.

She made her way to where Millie was standing, leaning against a wall and beaming to a short, fat wizard who was talking in a high pitched voice.

Before she could reach her, though, she felt a strong, warm hand closing around her upper arm. “I think it’s time we go home,” murmured Borgin, stopping her in her tracks. He gave her a cold smirk as his free hand ghosted on her stomach. “I would like to get started on my project.”

Pansy shivered under his touch. She knew he meant the heir. She felt grateful for the potion that she was still taking. He didn’t need to know that though, and maybe one day she would be ready to have a child. She tried to smile, but he had already diverted his eyes to the guests around them.

“Thank you for coming to our wedding,” he announced loudly. “I’m confident you had a wonderful time.” He pulled Pansy closer to him and she looked at the floor, she was happy that the day was over, but was horrified at what would await her that night. “I think it’s time for my lovely bride and I to retire.” He circled her shoulders and crushed her against his body. “We are working tomorrow, after all.” He looked around himself and didn’t lose the opportunity to advertise his shop. “Come to visit us at Borgin and Burkes.”

For the umpteenth time that day, Pansy felt humiliated. At least Astoria wasn’t there to laugh at her. Borgin let her go and turned to bark some orders to the house-elves – the presents were to be brought to their flat, just like the leftovers, and the guests had to be kicked out at midnight. Pansy sighed. The food was horrible, had he not noticed? Certainly everybody else did, and she had heard their murmurs. Why did he want the leftovers?

When Borgin was once again at her side, Pansy felt his greasy hands grabbing her waist. She hoped nobody asked for another kiss between the two of them, because she just couldn’t stand his wet and sloppy lips on her own, nor his smelly breath on her face or his greasy hands that felt now entitled to caress her where she didn’t want them to.

Luckily, nobody said anything.

Pansy looked at Millie and tried to free herself from Borgin. “I need to say goodbye to my friend.”

“I’ve done that for both of us,” he growled, grabbing her with more force than she expected him to have. “Let’s go home.”

He dragged her towards the stairs and down and she just couldn’t bring herself to look at Millie or Blaise one last time. She followed Borgin downstairs and suddenly the fear of what he would do to her gripped Pansy from the inside. The thought of her virginity taken by him, the thought of his naked body on her, the thought of his seed released inside of her. She felt sick and powerless.

Suddenly, she remembered that she hated him.

***

Pansy glanced at the living room. There was a small pile of presents awaiting to be opened on the table. The house-elves had been quick after the orders had been barked. She walked tentatively towards them, searching for one from someone she knew. Mr Burke, maybe. Or Millie. Instead she came across a small, soft package and her heart skipped a beat at the name on the tag. Narcissa Malfoy. She grabbed it and decided to open it in advance, surely her husband wouldn’t complain if she opened one.

She hated that her hands shook a bit as she tore the silver wrapping paper, and she hated that she was surprised to find something like that inside. She unfolded the present and looked with loathing at the onesie in her hands. A tag waved in front of her eyes.  _For your first born,_  it said and Pansy could almost hear the poison in Narcissa voice as she read it.

“Pansy.”

She turned to find Borgin at her back, his face expectant, his arms crossed on his chest. He looked intently at her.

“Let’s go,” he commanded meaningfully.

Pansy looked away. She certainly didn’t want him to see the despair on her face. She nodded and, putting the onesie back down, she walked towards him.

He smiled appreciatively at her submission and turned to walk towards his bedroom –  _their_  bedroom now. Pansy stopped when she was in front of the small room that she had used until two nights before, wishing she could still sleep in there. Just one more night. And then another. And another. And another.

“Pansy,” Borgin’s voice was a bit harsher than before. Probably losing his patience as he waited for her in their bedroom.

She took a deep breath and walked in there for the first time in her life. The room wasn’t small, nor particularly ugly, but the pieces of furniture – from the four-poster bed to the wardrobe to the bedside tables – were all dark and massive, giving the place a gloomy and ancient feeling. The covers on the bed had already been pushed back and the pillows had been fluffed up.

“Undress,” he ordered her, his voice firm, but soft. He was standing near the foot of the bed, he was now wearing only a pair of black trousers and a white shirt that had been hidden under his robes all day long.

Pansy looked up at him, taking a deep breath. “I can’t reach the buttons on the back,” she said softly.

Instead of getting angry as she had expected. He smiled affably. “Come here,” he said in an almost gentle way.

She mentally groaned as she walked to him. He grabbed her shoulders and made her turn. She could feel his greasy and sweaty hands brushing against her back. His fingers fumbled with the first button and as soon as he undid it, she felt the spell breaking and the dress ungluing from her body. He didn’t seem to notice anything, though, or if he did, he ignored it, but she brought her hands to her bodice to keep it in place.

He kept going until he reached the small of her back. His hands stopped then, and she imagined he had reached the last button. She tried to move away from him but his hands went to her waist. He pulled her to him and she froze at the feeling of his erection pressing against her buttocks.

He groaned as he moved her against his crotch. “Hmm,” he breathed in her ear, “you are so beautiful.” He moved a hand to her hair and took out the roses from her braid. He tried to loosen her locks, but found out that a spell was keeping them in place. Pansy heard him muttering, “ _Finite Incantatem_.” Her beautiful hairdo came undone in his hands and her long locks, curled because of the braid, fell on her shoulders. “I’m so lucky,” he murmured, before pushing her away. “Now undress,” he ordered her.

Borgin looked at her and she was sure she must have been a pitiful sight. Her hair falling all around her face, her hands gripping forcefully at the dress to keep it up and covering her breasts. She wished Borgin would have been in some sort of kink like clothed sex. At least she wouldn’t have needed to bare herself or worse, to see him naked. He wasn’t apparently, because under Pansy’s crestfallen gaze, he started to get undress himself.

“Are you deaf, girl?” he asked her with force. “Get naked.”

Pansy gritted her teeth. She grabbed her wedding dress and slowly eased it down her body. She was only too aware of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra, she hadn’t needed one under the dress, and her arms went automatically to her breasts, covering her nipples from his view.

She wondered if he would have liked to get the knickers and the stockings off of her himself. She wondered if he would have touched her or maybe licked her there. She wondered if he were going to ask her to suck him and to swallow. She wondered if she could have done that without throwing up all over him.

“Do you know what ‘naked’ means?” he asked her harshly.

Pansy nodded. She brought a hand to her knickers and brought them down her legs, discarding them on the floor. Quickly one of her palms went to cover her between her legs, but she shook her head softly at her own stupidity. She still had to take off the stockings and he would have seen her naked soon enough. She took off her shoes and bent over to make the white stockings slide down her legs. Quickly and in an as much unsexy way as she could.

When she stood up she was horrified to see him completely naked standing in front of her. His ugly, purple erection sprung up from a nest of curly pubic hair and it looked wrinkled even though he was extremely hard. He wasn’t even touching himself, his arms were crossed on his flaccid chest.

“Get on the bed,” he instructed her. She crawled on the big bed, wondering in which position he wanted her.

“Lie down, on your back. Spread your legs. Yes, like that.”

Pansy furrowed her brow as she moved her thighs apart. Wasn’t he going to touch her at all? Draco loved to touch her, and Lucius as well. She thought every man liked to touch a woman’s naked body before sex.

He walked towards her and knelt at the bottom of the bed, between her open legs. He looked at her with stern eyes. “You’ve never done this, have you?” he asked her thickly.

“No,” replied Pansy, her voice just a quiver as she hoped to sound like a pure, virginal lassie.

“It’s going to hurt,” he told her practically. “But then it’s going to feel good.” He grabbed her milky legs to raise her bottom. “I don’t like all those twisted things that some other wizards like,” he informed her. “But you don’t have to worry about it, just let me do what I want and you’ll be fine.”

He grabbed his erection and aligned himself with her folds. Pansy raised her head from the bed, scared. Surely, he didn’t mean to push into her without first preparing her. She wasn’t nowhere near aroused and her folds were not wet yet.

She instinctively brought her hand to her clit, trying to stimulate herself into feeling something, into getting wet. He pushed her hand away with force. “Don’t touch yourself,” he growled, thrusting into her, “it’s dirty.”

Pansy’s head fell back down on the pillow as he inched forcefully and painfully into her. Her hands went to the white sheets when he reached her hymen and thrust into it, taking her second virginity with ferociousness. She opened her mouth in a silent scream, all the air knocked out of her lungs. The first time she had lost her virginity, it had hurt. A lot. But Draco had soothed her pain away and she had found comfort in his arms. And she had been wet. But now, she couldn’t believe she was feeling more pain than the first time. But she was. Borgin was not gentle, and he was not Draco.

He pushed into her until he was buried to the hilt. Pansy’s lower abdomen hurt as if a sword had just stabbed her. She arched her back and her stomach muscles tensed in a vain effort to compensate the pain. She felt her knuckles hurting and tried to loosen the grip on the sheets.

“So tight,” groaned Borgin over her, then, as if that was a signal, he started to exit her and slam back in. Slowly at first, then more and more frantically.

Pansy writhed under him. She opened her mouth to take big gulps of air, but felt like her throat had closed. She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t find the force to do it. Instead, she let out small whimpers and moans of pain. It was not getting better as he had promised, but she could feel her folds wetting a little. Probably more with his pre-come and her blood rather than her excitement, because she didn’t feel excited at all.

She felt two weights on each side of her waist, pushing against the mattress and looked up to see Borgin hovering over her, his hands a few inches from her hips. His ugly face was scrunched for the pleasure that she was giving him without receiving any back.

He bucked against her erratically now. The most disgusting sounds she had ever heard were leaving his lips every now and then. And when he collapsed on top of her, his body crushing hers, she hoped he had finished.

He hadn’t.

He stopped thrusting though, worming his way up her body and lay down on top of her, he moved his mouth close to hers. He gave her a kiss half-way to her lips and her cheek, a chaste and soft kiss. He slid his hand towards hers and grabbed her wrist, making her release the sheet and turn her hand, and he enlaced his fingers into hers. He brought up the hand over her head, making her bend the arm over her shoulder. He traced her lips with his other hand and kissed her again. She didn’t respond.

Finally, he got tired of being gentle and resumed his pounding. She arched against him, pushing her breasts into his chest in what he obviously mistook for wanton, because he moaned. Her fingers gripped his own forcefully and her heels dug into the mattress. The pain still there, still so strong she thought she would pass out.

He grunted more loudly and increased his pace. Then he finally shoved so deep into her that she thought she would break in two. He howled his pleasure and bucked a few more times before stilling completely. She felt his semen ejaculate inside of her and knew that he had finished. He lay on top of her for what seemed ages to Pansy, his flaccid member still sheathed between her folds.

She was too tired and ached too much to even nudge him to move away. She regretted greatly not having let Draco take her virginity that morning, surely Borgin’s anger would have been a small price to pay to avoid all this pain.

Finally, he moved away, his member exiting her with a painful movement. He knelt between her legs and Pansy looked at his satisfied face as he gazed down at the sheets. She didn’t have to look – and she was still in too much pain to do it anyway – to know that he was staring at the blood that had tainted the sheets.

She tried to roll to her side to look away from those beady eyes which were gaping at her, but he grabbed her waist and made her lie on her back again. She looked up at him, wanting to tell him something, but at that moment he shoved a pillow under the small of her back.

Pansy looked at him without understanding, but he turned, dismounted the bed and walked towards an armchair to wear a dressing gown. “Stay like this for a couple of hours,” he said, without looking at her. “It helps the conception,” he added, walking out of the door and leaving her there.

She closed her eyes. She couldn’t have moved anyway, so she didn’t complain too much. The feeling of his semen inside of her made her feel soiled. She brought an arm over her face to cover her eyes, pushing her nose in the bend of her elbow.

Never before had she wanted to be with Draco as much as she wanted it now. Never.

***

Astoria almost lost her balance as Draco dragged her towards their room. He felt her stagger behind him, her heels echoing in an awkward way through the sleeping Manor. She took a sharp, noisy breath, but didn’t utter a word.

Draco opened their door and pushed her roughly inside. She stumbled and fell on her knees, her fingers gripping frantically at the bedspread to steady herself. She pushed on her hands and came up from the floor, turning, she sat at the foot of the bed, glaring at Draco with fury.

Draco paced the room. He was nervous and angry and he just wanted to punish her for her behaviour. Could he do that? Yes, indeed, he was her husband.

“You are a little bitch, Astoria, aren’t you?” he asked heatedly.

Astoria seemed to regain her composure when she heard his harsh words. “Why?” she asked haughtily. “Because I embarrassed your slut?” she added with hatred.

Draco stopped pacing and walked to her. His head menacingly close to hers. “Don’t call her that,” he hissed.

“Oh, but we both know that she is a slut,” she hissed back, “and she knows as well.”

Draco raised his hand to hit her, but stopped with his arm in mid air when his eyes met her defiant ones. She didn’t cower, on the contrary, she tilted her head a bit, to offer him a better angle to slap her.

He lowered his hand, shaking his head. “You are not worth it,” he hissed. He knew she wouldn’t have blinked an eye if he hit her, she would have just sat there showing how little she cared about being chastised. No, he would punish her the way he knew she would hurt. No physical pain for her, only psychological. Once again, he would deny his seed to her.

He stepped back and took off his dinner jacket, his icy eyes staring at her as he fished his member from his trousers and started to pump it with his hand. Astoria flashed him a mischievous smile and started to untie her fur collar.

Draco wondered if there were something wrong with him, as he didn’t seem able to make himself hard. He had to close his eyes and think about something else, because Astoria was beautiful, but the hatred he felt for her at that very moment made him want to slap her rather than shag her. He had to think about Pansy. So beautiful, so small, so…  _Pansy_. He imagined himself peeling that wedding dress off of her, like probably Borgin was doing at that very moment, he imagined her supple body against him, grinding, moaning, touching him. He moaned and opened his eyes. His member was hard in his hand and Astoria was looking at him from the bed. She was lying completely naked on her side, her hand was prepped under her chin and she was looking at him sensually, as if waiting for him to take her.

Draco pushed his trousers off and discarded them on the floor, his underwear followed them swiftly and soon he was kneeling on the bed. Astoria spread her legs to welcome him and he hovered over her for a few seconds, staring down at her with loathing. She responded with a smirk and with a soft raising of her hips, as if to urge him in.

He grabbed her waist and penetrated her with brutality. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes, but Draco was unsure if it was for the pain or the pleasure. She was already wet, so he was sure she wasn’t suffering too much. He would have had to fix that. He started to thrust into her in earnest, burying himself until he was balls-deep before coming out again, and then pushing in and exiting her over and over. He looked up at her and saw that she was looking down at where their bodies joined with her lips slightly parted, one of her manicured fingers was caressing the little nub of her nipple. She raised her eyes on him and he saw her smirking.

She raised her head and kissed him roughly, her hands, painful like little claws, went to his shoulders and, as he slowed down his thrusts into her to focus on the kiss, she unexpectedly pushed him off of her.

He rolled on his back, looking at her without understanding. How did she push him away?  _Why_  did she push him away? He was sure she had just caught him off guard because she could have hardly been strong enough to manage that.

He didn’t have time to ask her anything, though. She was on him before he could open his mouth. She lowered herself on his erection, letting him slide inside once again. She brought her hands to his chest and kept him down as she took control like he had never let her do before.

Draco looked mesmerised at his wife for a long time. Her breasts were bouncing with every movement, her face was flushing in pleasure. Then, as she descended once again until her clit was pushing against the base of his erection, he started to feel his balls tightening as he was finally reaching his release. He brought his hands to her waist, after five years it had become almost instinctive for him to exit her before his orgasm.

“No!” she cried unexpectedly. She grabbed his wrists, digging those shaped nails into his flesh. She tightened her knees around his legs and looked at him with a furious glare. “No,” she repeated a bit less forcefully. “It’s over, Draco.” She leaned closer to him, gyrating her waist to make him come. “She is married, she is no longer yours to play with.” Astoria looked intently at him. “It’s time to start a life without her,” she hissed, “give me a son.”

Draco felt the force of her words invading his mind. He looked into her eyes and couldn’t find anything that he liked. He wanted to push her off and come all over her stomach, but, as her walls contracted around his erection, he found that he was past controlling his limbs.

His balls tightened and soon he had to close his eyes to take in the ecstasy of his orgasm. He gritted his teeth and let his head fall back. “Pansy,” he breathed out through the waves of pleasure.

He could feel Astoria stilling completely on top of him and when he came down from his peak and opened his eyes he saw her staring icily down at him.

Her hand was quick and sharp as she slapped him soundly on his cheek and her wedding ring was painful against his skin. She dismounted him and walked away, he heard the bathroom door close and knew that she was not in the room anymore.

It took him a long moment to register that, involuntarily, he had managed to inflict her even more pain than he had expected. He smirked, satisfied at the knowledge. It took him an even longer moment to understand that he had just ejaculated into her, though. His life would be radically different from that moment on, if he had gotten her pregnant.

He rolled on his side and pushed his head in the pillow. Right at that moment, he was just sure of one thing. Astoria didn’t know what she was talking about, it was not over. Not with Pansy.


	6. A Great Deal of Pain

***

Pansy had been married for less than a week when she made her way towards Diagon Alley on a cold Wednesday afternoon. He had told her to come. He had said that at her wedding. Hadn’t he? She wasn’t sure, that day was so blurred in her memory. She was trying her hardest to forget it, and she was succeeding quite well. She vaguely recalled Millie’s irritating comments, she remembered dancing with Blaise and she remembered Draco. He hugged her. And his arms around her had made her feel even sadder than she already was.

But, contrary to what she expected, Pansy had found out that being married to Borgin actually had its advantages. Of course, she could count them on the fingers of one hand, but still…

She had gained a bit of freedom. She could come and go between Borgin and Burkes and the flat as she pleased. He didn’t ask her to stay in the shop all day or to wake up at some ungodly hour as she was used to. He never told her anything when she walked away and climbed up the stairs to drink a glass of water or use the bathroom or lie down a bit. It was also remarkably easy for her to get out of the shop. She could use any excuse she wanted – “We are out of potatoes.”; “I need a new beautifying potion.”; “I would like a new frying pan.” – and he didn’t question her. Too much. He kept telling her to rest as well and Pansy knew why. He was probably hoping for a little Borgin to be growing inside of her at that very moment. Pansy didn’t want to shatter his dream any time soon, so she kept the fact that she was still taking the anti-contraception potion to herself. He was probably familiar with the fact that sometimes it took time anyway. Blimey! He had had two wives already and she was not aware of any children of his. She wouldn’t be his wife now if he already had an heir. The last perk of being his wife was that, when she walked through Knockturn Alley, nobody bothered her anymore, and that was especially because of the things that her husband had assured he would do to anybody who would lay a finger on her. She was surprised at first because that meant that Borgin was more respected and feared than she had imagined.

But there were also downsides, and Merlin, she couldn’t even start to count them. First thing first, there was the sex. Every single night, precisely at nine, he made her lie down on the bed and entered her without as much as a hint of foreplay. She had learned, a couple of days after their first night together, to disappear into the bathroom before he started to look for her and work herself into a state of arousal. It hurt her every day less, her walls getting used to being stretched day after day by the same erection. But the less she writhed and cried in pain under him, the longer it took him to reach his orgasm. In the last few days he had started to twitch her nipples painfully to entice a response from her. Luckily, as soon as she let out a cry and scrunched her eyes up in pain, he came into her. Then he exited her and made her raise her legs in a vain attempt to get her pregnant.

Pansy had never reached her release with him, how could she when she was so disgusted by that man? So revolted by him that she could barely bear to look at his face as he breathed on her neck? She was also starting to get anxious because she understood that he delighted in her pain and she didn’t know to what lengths he would go to make her suffer for his pleasure. But she was grateful for the lack of contact between the two of them. She was happy that he rarely demanded a kiss or that his greasy hands never touched her. She was over the moon when she understood that she would have never had to suck him or that he didn’t want to take her in her arse. He seemed to know only one position and, although Pansy was not in control, she was just happy he didn’t ask her to do anything.

Then there was the housework, which somehow tripled from one day to the other. And the fact that she had no salary anymore. She could use his money, but she had to ask every time, and he could decide not to give it to her if he didn’t like why she was asking for it. And he became more and more critical of her cooking, and of her appearance, because he had wondered out loud more than once if her hips were broad enough for child-bearing. She ignored him as well as she could, but sometimes she just wanted to hex him so much she had to unclench her fingers from around her wand to avoid hitting him with a wandering curse.

Pansy tried not to think about all those things as she stepped into Diagon Alley. Borgin had also forbidden her to take care of Mr Malfoy’s artefacts, so she would have had to find every Wednesday a different excuse to meet up with Draco. Her excuse that day was that she wanted to buy a book for herself, and even if he had deemed the idea frivolous, he had not stopped her when she had said that she would have gone to Flourish and Blotts that afternoon. She made a mental note to actually stop to buy a book on her way back, but for now reading was not her priority.

She came to a stop when she reached the massive building where the wealthiest wizards and witches used to buy flats for their trips to London. 244 Diagon Alley. She looked up at the wide windows on the third floor and wondered if her walk there was just an exercise of futility. Would he be there? She hadn’t sent him a note, nor had he. The only thing that made her think that maybe he would have been in his flat, waiting for her, was that he had asked her if she were free that Wednesday. Wasn’t that enough? Was he just joking? Maybe she was fooling herself. Maybe he didn’t want her anymore now that she had been ravished by Borgin.

She took a deep breath, as if to give herself courage, and thought intensely of the living room in Draco’s flat. She felt herself being pulled in all directions from inside out, and when she opened her eyes she was standing in the middle of her desired destination.

Pansy blinked. The room was dark and the fireplace was out. It could mean only one thing: there was nobody there. She rolled her eyes in frustration, angry with herself for being that stupid, angry with Draco for leading her to believe that he would have come.

She sighed. At least she would buy herself a new book. Meagre consolation, she knew it, but it was not every day that she bought something for herself. She started to think about the entrance of the building, where she was supposed to Apparate before walking back to Diagon Alley, when a soft pop made her jerk her head up.

She managed to catch a glimpse of a pale face with relieved, grey eyes that were looking at her, before Draco engulfed her small body in his arms. She heard his heartbeat as he pushed her head against his chest and sighed. Pansy acted on the urge to hug him back.

“I really, really thought you weren’t coming,” he confessed softly as he leaned his cheek on her head.

“Likewise,” she replied against his jacket.

He slowly released her and stepped back a little, his eyes scrutinising her face and body. She knew perfectly well what he was thinking and yes, she was definitely fleshier than a few weeks before. The regular food and little movement that defined her new lifestyle had granted her a slightly plumper body. Not that she still couldn’t see her pronounced cheekbones, or that she didn’t have bony wrists, but still her cheeks weren’t hollow anymore and her breasts looked slightly suppler. She wondered if he liked her that way, he had always found her attractive when she was all bones, what would he think now? Pansy wanted to believe that she didn’t care about his judgement.

“You look dazzling,” he murmured. And she was happy to realise that she did care.

She curved her lips in a soft smile. “You just want to bed me,” she accused him jokingly.

Draco smirked. “I don’t need to flatter you if I want to bed you,” he reminded her, his arms crossing on his chest. “But you do look… healthier.” He seemed to find that word inappropriate because he added hastily, “For lack of a better term.”

Pansy shrugged her shoulder nonchalantly. “I don’t have to walk to the shop and back every day anymore,” she explained. “I’m becoming a lazy old woman.”

Draco snorted. He walked into the kitchen and drew something from his jacket, placed it on the table and turned to look at Pansy. “I brought you some figs,” he told her, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. “I remembered that you like them.”

Pansy smiled as she made her way to the table. “I do,” she confirmed, opening the paper bag and fishing one out. It was soft and when she pulled it apart a clear, sticky liquid dropped on her fingers. She licked them carefully. It was sweet. She brought the fruit to her lips and took a bite of the seedy pulp. It was delicious and she wondered where it came from. Did Astoria plant a fig tree in the orchard at the Manor?

She looked up to meet Draco’s eyes. He was looking at her gravely, as if he was waiting for something to happen. Pansy licked her lips and looked suspiciously at the fruit. “Is it poisonous?” she asked trying to keep her voice free of emotion.

“What?” Draco asked back, surprise in his voice. “No, no.”

Pansy put the skin down and went to the sink to wash her sticky hands. “Then why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, giving him her back.

Draco snorted. “Like what?” And when she turned she could see that he was slightly irritated.

“Like you have something to confess,” she replied simply, drying her hands on a tea towel.

Draco shook his head. He walked away and Pansy followed him back into the living room. He sat on the wide couch and patted a spot next to him. She slowly took off her shoes and knelt near him, leaning an arm on the back of couch and resting her head on it.

“I don’t have anything to confess,” he grumbled, looking sideways at her.

Pansy sighed. “You are not a good liar,” she retorted bluntly. “Just say what you have to say.”

Draco looked away, his hands curled into fists on his thighs. He took a sharp, irritated breath, as if he were annoyed at the fact that he didn’t seem able to ignore her questions. “I think,” he started slowly, “I think I might have gotten Astoria pregnant.”

Pansy raised her head, looking at Draco intently. He was stubbornly keeping his eyes on the floor. She hadn’t expected that kind of confession. She thought he wanted to… she didn’t even know what she thought. Not  _that_  though. “That’s all?” she asked, a bit too unsympathetic.

Draco looked grimly at her. “Isn’t that enough?”

Pansy smiled a little and leaned her head against her arm again. “Astoria must be over the moon.”

Draco turned to look at her, horrified. “Are you seriously saying that you don’t care that she is pregnant?” he asked harshly.

Pansy tilted her head back a little, her face becoming unreadable. “You’ve been married for what? Four? Five years?” she replied flatly. “I was just starting to think that you weren’t screwing her at all.”

Draco looked icily at her. “Well, contrary to what you might think,” he retorted coldly, “I know what to do if I don’t want to have children.”

“Then what went wrong?” she asked, her voice as cold as Draco’s.

He shook his head softly and for a moment Pansy thought that he was not going to tell her. “I just…” His words trailed away as he looked at the fireplace and noticed that the fire was out. “Aren’t you cold?” he asked her, suddenly interested in her wellbeing. Before she could reply, he was already pointing his wand to the fireplace. “ _Incendio_ ,” he murmured distractedly and a cheerful fire sprang to life.

“Draco,” she called him softly. “What happened?”

Draco took a deep breath. “I was angry with her,” he replied heatedly. “It… It was the night after your wedding and she had been just such a—” He stopped and looked at Pansy as if he had just remembered something. “What did she say?”

Pansy furrowed her brow. Astoria had said so much that day and she had just wanted to forget it all. “When?” she asked.

Draco turned completely towards her, his knee brushing against hers. “When she wanted you to kiss her goodbye,” he urged her. “What did she say?”

Now it was Pansy’s time to look away. “I don’t remember,” she replied, her voice slightly higher than usual.

“You are not a good liar, either,” he accused her.

Pansy smirked, her eyes still stubbornly looking away. “I’m excellent liar,” she retorted. “So, you were angry at Astoria and decided that the best way to make her pay was to get her pregnant.” She tried to go back to his story, hoping that he would soon forget about his question.

Draco looked at her, sulking. “She said things,” he continued slowly, “things about you… that I didn’t like… and then, I don’t even know what happened.” He looked at her almost apologetically and Pansy didn’t know why. “I just know that now she might be pregnant.”

Pansy stretched her hand to touch his. “And how do you feel?” she asked softly. She had to ask, even though she feared her reaction if he professed his uncontrollable happiness.

“I don’t know,” he replied, turning his hand to take hers into his, his fingers squeezing her gently. She squeezed back.

“It’s still early,” she soothed him, “and you said she might not even be pregnant.”

Draco nodded, then when he turned to look at her he was wearing a smirk on his face. “What about you?” he asked. “How is it to be married to Borgin?”

Pansy tried to withdraw her hand, but Draco kept her in place. She glared at him and, as an answer, he just pulled her towards him. She could feel his breath on her face as he was only inches away from her now. He looked at her seriously, as if touching or kissing was the last of his thoughts at that moment and her answer was the first.

Pansy decided to change that. She leaned towards him and captured his lips with hers. It was not many times that she initiated a kiss, and she could feel that Draco took a little time to respond to her. She licked his lips, demanding entrance and when she bit his bottom lip, she felt him opening his mouth to welcome her tongue. He released her hand and slid his arm around her, pushing her towards him. She had to put her hands on his chest to avoid falling on his lap.

“Pansy,” he breathed frantically, jerking away from her.

Pansy fell back on the heels of her feet. “What?” she asked sweetly.

“I asked you something,” he growled.

Pansy rolled her eyes. Then something dawned in her mind. There was something that she could have shared that would have ended that conversation once and for all. She tried to look as miserable as possible when she looked up at him. “I never have an orgasm with him,” she murmured softly, her hand worming its way to his crotch. “He always finishes before I get to come.”

Draco looked at her with surprise, but Pansy looked away before the surprise could change into something different and much, much worse. Like derision. Or pity.

She saw, out of the corner of her eye, Draco opening his mouth to tell her something, but she didn’t let him. She turned again towards him and kissed him forcefully. She brought her hands to his face and cupped his sensitive flesh under his ears, gripping a bit of hair in the process. As quickly as a cat, she swung her leg around and sat on his lap, arching her back to lean down and keep kissing him.

He brought his hands to her sides and slowly made them slide over her back, pushing her towards him. She brushed her centre against his member and felt him moaning softly. She did it again, and again. Gyrating her hips a bit and then sinking down on him. She could feel him getting harder and harder under her and she couldn’t restrain a smile as she kissed him raw.

She sunk a bit more on the erection she had enticed, and he had to dig his fingers into her waist to make her stop. She let his lips alone and proceeded to kiss the length of his jaw, wriggling in his lap at the same time.

Draco groaned. “If you don’t stop that right now,” he breathed out, “I’ll be just like Borgin and come before you do…”

Pansy giggled against his jaw. She bit lightly at his bone and withdrew. She ground her legs around him, earning her a scowl, before dismounting him. He stretched a hand out to undo the front button of her trousers, but she stepped back. “I have to get naked,” she reminded him. She nodded towards the tent in his trousers. “You too.”

Draco gritted his teeth, opening his own trousers. “Just be quick,” he grumbled.

Pansy was happy to comply. Finally, after a whole week spent dreading the moment she was shoved into, she felt herself looking forward to having sex. Most of all, she was looking forward to having an orgasm. No. Most of all, she was looking forward to being with Draco.

She shed her clothes quickly, letting them fall on the floor as she had never done before. She would have thought of an excuse afterwards if her husband was unsatisfied with her appearance, maybe that she had run back home because she missed him. That would have also explained her flushed cheeks.

Completely naked, she turned to face him. He was stroking his erection and looking at her with eyes clouded with lust. To her surprise, he was already naked as well. She walked up to him and made to sit to straddle his lap, just as she was doing mere seconds before, but Draco grabbed her wrist before she could actually lower herself on him and pushed her towards the couch.

“On all fours,” he half-ordered her, his voice thick with lust.

Pansy looked disappointed at him, after all that time away from him, she wanted to have some face to face sex. Above all, though, she wanted to feel him in her, she wanted to know that someone who cared for her was taking her. She knelt on the couch, giving him her bottom, and she felt him standing up and then kneeling behind her. He grabbed her hips and pulled her towards him. For a moment, she thought that he was going to enter her without even checking if she was ready. She stiffened her muscles and Draco must have noticed because he brought a hand to the small of her back and pushed her down towards the couch, making her buttocks stick up more prominently.

Her hand went automatically to her clit, but he pushed her away gently. She sighed in relief when she felt moisture on her fingers, meaning that she was already wet for Draco. Of course, she had been so focused on making him forget to ask her more questions about her marital life, that she had almost been oblivious to her rising excitement.

She relaxed a little and waited for Draco to enter her. It didn’t happen. She tried to wriggle her buttocks a little, a smile on her lips. When he still didn’t even touch her, she turned to peek over her shoulder. Draco was looking at her with his eyes half-opened, he had two fingers in his mouth and was sucking on them.

Pansy furrowed her brow. “What are you waiting for?” she asked, scared that maybe her new, fleshier appearance wasn’t appealing to him.

He focused his eyes and looked at her face. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, “I could stare at you forever.”

Pansy turned her head away when she felt her cheeks flushing red. Sometimes, he could be so mushy she just didn’t know what to reply to him. “Well, don’t just stare,” she snapped, her voice throaty, “do something.”

She heard a chuckle and the next thing she knew was that the fingers that Draco was sucking on were entering her. She let out a moan. He moved slowly into her and every single one of his movements sent shivers up her spine. He pushed as far as he could go and she felt his thumb finding and caressing her clit. He wiggled his fingers inside of her and she trembled. It felt good.

When she let out a moan, he started to pull out of her. She expected him to push his digits back in before exited her, but he didn’t. She felt his weight on the couch behind her shift and then nothing. She groaned for the lack of ministrations and he chuckled again, amused. Did he like to see her hopelessly waiting for him? Of course he did, he was a Malfoy, he just loved to have her in his power.

She tried to bring her hand to her clit once again, but Draco pushed her away for the second time. Then his fingers shoved into her again and as she felt her arms giving in under the gentle force of his hands, she fell with her face on a cushion. He added a third finger and she whimpered slightly, but there was almost no pain compared to what she felt with Borgin. He worked frantically now, in and out, in and out, and when he added his second hand to massage her clit in circles, her head shot up and she brought a hand back to grab his forearm.

“Stop,” she moaned, “or I’ll come before you even enter me.”

Draco smirked. “That’s the plan,” he told her, pushing on his knees and bending over her. He lowered his head to hers, captured her lips with his mouth and kissed her roughly.

She panted against his lips, his hands firmly keeping her in place, her neck and cheeks flushed with pleasure.

He released her mouth. “For every time that pig didn’t let you come,” he whispered in her ear, kissing her temple.

Pansy moaned at his words. She unclenched her fingers around his arm, but kept her hand there for support. She felt free to buck against his fingers then, and as he breathed on her sweaty skin and pushed into her, she felt her excitement building on. She closed her eyes and cried out as her orgasm washed over her, rocking her hips and trying to escape Draco’s fingers, even though he kept them in place. He slowed down his movements, though, pushing his digits to his knuckles and stopping inside of her. Her walls contracted around him and she felt her head lighten as the last waves of pleasure rippled through her body.

She was panting now, her hair covered her face and she felt hot. Her fingers still grasped Draco’s arm. He exited her slowly and when he was completely out, she felt her juices dripping on her thighs.

She let his arm go and pushed on her hands to straighten up her back. He brought his hands on her stomach and pulled her towards him. She turned her head to kiss him and he kissed her back, his moist fingers tracing figures on her skin. She could sense his erection, harder than ever, between the cleft of her buttocks and pushed against it.

“You are naughty,” moaned Draco, against her lips.

Pansy snorted softly. “Look who’s talking…”

Draco pushed her back down, again she found herself on all fours. Again he pulled her buttocks up to a position that suited him. Again, he entered her, but this time not with his fingers.

He inched his erection slowly into her. Grabbing her hips and pulling her to him while he pushed into her. He stopped only when he was balls deep in her. It didn’t hurt. Not a single bit. On the contrary, she loved it. Her folds were still so sensitive from her recent orgasm, that she thought that every time he moved she felt electricity going through her nerves.

He slowly started to pull out of her and then he pushed back in. His movements mimicking those of his fingers earlier as he gradually became more frantic. He was grunting now, and Pansy found herself revelling in those lascivious sounds of appreciation.

He let out a louder grunt and fell back with his buttocks on the couch. She felt his hands guiding her towards him, his erection never exiting her completely, and found herself sitting with her back against his chest. In that position, he pushed into her with a steadier rhythm, and she pushed down to meet his thrusts. One of her hands went to the back of the couch, and she brought the other to his neck. She turned and kissed his neck, sucking softly, feeling the need to leave a mark, but knowing that she couldn’t.

He started to pant out something incomprehensible, interjecting the river of words with her name. Finally, Pansy’s second orgasm hit her and it hit her hard. She cried out, her eyes rolling back. She buried her face in the hollow of his neck, her walls contracting around his length. Suddenly, she noticed his hands tightening on her bones as he shoved all the way into her and stilled. She felt a warm, sticky liquid being squirted inside of her, and Draco’s loud grunt and his raising chest against her shoulder blades confirmed that he had reached his peak too.

Slowly, he slid down until he was lying with his back on the couch, and Pansy was dragged with him by his warm hands. She could feel him catching his breath under her, his softening erection still encased in her wet folds. She tried to wiggle away from him, before he could get hard once more and find another excuse to have sex with her again. It was already so late, she would have had to explain her absence with some well construed lie of hers. It was okay, she was an  _excellent_  liar. 

Draco didn’t let her worm away though. His arms tightened even more as he hugged her and pushed her against himself.

She turned her head towards him. “I have to go,” she whispered.

He grumbled something that Pansy didn’t quite catch, but he released her. She was careful to make his member slide out of her before sitting up on his lower abdomen. She pushed on her knees and hands to stand up. Draco’s wandering hands brushing lazily against her round buttocks as she moved away from him.

She searched for her wand through her clothes, she had to clean herself.

“Are you still on the potion?”

She turned to look at him and found that he was lying on his side, a hand propped under his face, his eyes still looking longingly at her.

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “Yes,” she answered, “why? Do you want to populate the world with little Malfoys?”

Draco shrugged his shoulder. “I’m sure the world would thank me,” he replied cockily.

Pansy shook her head, amused. She found her wand and muttered a Cleaning Spell. Then got dressed as quickly as her weak legs let her.

Draco sat up. “Are you coming next Wednesday?” he asked, as he looked for his own wand.

Pansy buttoned up her shirt. “If you want me to,” she replied softly.

Draco snorted, a soft smile on his lips. “You are such a tease, Pansy,” he murmured. “Do you even notice?”

Pansy wore her jacket and smoothed it over her sides. “Of course I do,” she replied sweetly. She walked to Draco, who was still sitting there naked, and lowered to kiss him gently. He kissed her back. “See you on Wednesday,” she whispered to him, before withdrawing and Disapparating.

***

“Pansy, wait—” Draco’s sentence was cut off by her sudden Disapparition. He rolled his eyes and stood up from the couch. His naked body felt cold now that she was no longer there to arouse him. He cleaned himself and hurried to wear something.

The fire was dying out in the fireplace and he decided that it was time for him to get back to the Manor. He went into the kitchen first, where the figs that he had brought Pansy were still in the bag. He picked up the skin that she had carelessly discarded on the table and gave it a tentative lick at the remaining pulp, trying to taste Pansy’s flavour on it. He couldn’t – the sweetness of the fruit was too strong – but pretended that he did taste her.

He shook his head and vanished the skin with an annoyed gesture of his wand. He should have been mad at her, not wanting to taste her again.

He felt incredibly stupid. She had dodged his questions again. This time by kissing him and grinding her body against him. He felt like a horny teenager when he looked at her. He should learn how to behave in front of her. For Pansy’s sake if not for his own. He wanted to know what she didn’t want to tell him and he wanted to know  _why_  she didn’t want to tell him. Probably she thought she was protecting herself by not telling him anything. Protecting herself from what? The thing that Pansy didn’t understand was that he didn’t want to hurt her in any way possible.

He just wanted to be with her.

***

Pansy sighed as softly as she could. Borgin was talking and talking and talking about the fact that after two months she was still childless. She had stopped listening to him twenty seconds into his rant. She still nodded every now and then to let him know that she was not spacing out, but she didn’t hear a word he said. She didn’t need to, really, she knew his speech by heart. Something was wrong, she was not born to be a mother, she didn’t have a belly big enough to carry a child. She snorted at the fact that he didn’t remotely think that maybe something was wrong with himself.

“…and you are going to toast and eat pumpkin seeds from now on,” he finished when the door of the shop opened. “They help getting pregnant,” he added in a whisper.

Pansy nodded distractedly and turned to look at the customer that had just walked through the door. She had been waiting for a client for the whole time that she had been there in the shop and now, as she saw the tall, young man with high cheekbones that walked towards her, she genuinely smiled.

“Mr Zabini,” Borgin greeted him in his usual oily tone of voice. “What a pleasure. What can I do for you?”

Blaise nodded. “Mr Borgin.” He looked at Pansy and flashed her a smile. “Mrs Borgin.”

Pansy glared at him but replied to his greeting, trying to keep her voice as free from her irritation as possible. “Mr Zabini,” she greeted him emotionlessly.

Blaise turned his eyes to Borgin. “I’m here to buy, today,” he let the man know.

Borgin’s eyes sparkled with the promise of money. “Wonderful,” he drawled, licking his lips. “Do you know what you want to buy?”

Blaise nodded towards Pansy. “Maybe your wife can help me,” he smirked softly, “I am looking for some beautiful pieces of jewellery. For my fiancée.”

Pansy furrowed her brow. She had seen him two months before and he didn’t look like he had a girlfriend, let alone a  _fiancée_. Unless, naturally, that fiancée was Millie. Pansy had to suppress a chuckle at the very thought.

“Of course, of course,” coaxed Borgin. “Pansy, dear, go help Mr Zabini,” he added in that sweet tone of voice that he used only when there were customers around.

“Of course,” replied Pansy, keeping her eyes on Blaise. She stepped from behind the counter and led him towards the massive, antique cupboard that they used to store the jewellery. The same spot where she had brought Draco, the place where he had made her wear the necklace that had burnt her skin.

She opened the cupboard for him and turned to look at her friend, a naughty smile on her face. “I didn’t know you had a fiancée,” she confessed, raising her eyebrows. “Do I know her?”

Blaise smirked. “I do have a fiancée,” he replied matter-of-factly, “and no, you don’t know her, but I do need your help to get rid of her.”

Pansy looked at him surprised. “Excuse me?” she asked, without understanding. Did he say,  _get rid of her?_

Blaise nodded. “Not kill her,” he explained slowly, “just scare her enough to make her go away.”

Pansy furrowed her brow. “Yes, indeed, I can help,” she informed him slowly, “my suggestion is that you tell her you are not interested.”

Blaise smiled indulgently. “See, I can’t do that,” he replied simply. “She is crazy.” He looked into the cupboard. “Maybe, if you had some kind of… I don’t know… some earrings that make her forget me. Or a ring that will make her see me as an ugly, disgusting git.” He took a deep breath and added, dramatically, “That would be extremely advanced magic, though.”

Pansy turned to look at the cupboard, dismissing his excess of overconfidence in his good-looks. “Why on earth did you ask her to marry you, if you don’t want to?” she asked, rummaging through the boxes. Where was that damn necklace? The one she hated that much. She was finally ready to sell it to someone.

“I didn’t,” he replied, “she was the one who asked me.”

Pansy almost made a pile of boxes fall. “And why didn’t you refuse?”

“We were having sex,” clarified Blaise as if that explained everything. It did, really. Pansy had had sex with only three men in all her life, but every time they were close to their orgasm, she had noticed that they completely lost it.

She finally found the little box with the necklace and randomly grabbed three more boxes to show him, just in case that piece wasn’t good enough. She turned and placed them all on a small, dusty, round table. “Right,” she sighed, “and why don’t you want to marry her? Is she really that hideous?”

Blaise walked towards the table. “She is gorgeous,” he replied softly, “but she is poor.”

Without looking at him, she sighed. Right,  _poor_. Why was she surprised at all? She herself was too poor for Draco. It just made sense that some other girls were too poor for Blaise. She was surely too poor for him as well. When she was back at Hogwarts and had had her family’s money she would have thought that most people were too poor for her as well. But now… “Right,” she snapped tightly.

Blaise raised a hand. “No, wait,” he added quickly as if realising that he didn’t mean that, “it’s not because she is  _poor_.”

Pansy curved her lips in a tight smile. “I don’t care, Blaise, really,” she replied gently. “I even agree with you. Money is important.”

Blaise shook his head forcefully. “No, Pansy,” he continued. “It’s because… you know, I’m rich.”

Pansy looked at him with annoyance. “I know,” she snapped rather heatedly, “and you can do whatever you want.”

“Oh Merlin,” exclaimed Blaise. Apparently, he was frustrated at his own inability to explain himself. “Right, I am not too fond of marriage.” He raised his eyebrows as if he expected her to understand what he was talking about. When she didn’t move he rolled his eyes. “My mother,” he added emphatically.

Pansy’s lips parted in amused surprise. “Right,” she finally realised what he meant, “you are afraid you’ll end up like one of her husbands.”

Blaise smirked. “Well, it only took you twenty minutes to get there,” he grunted mockingly.

Pansy narrowed her eyes. “Well, you can’t express yourself,” she retorted.

He chuckled at her irritation. “My mother had nothing when she married the first time,” he explained, “and now, five husbands later, she is a wealthy witch. What woman wouldn’t want that?”

Pansy looked at him, trying to understand if he was really worried he would have ended up like his father and the other men that had had the misfortune to marry into his family. “So you are never going to marry,” she reasoned matter-of-factly.

He shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not like I care about getting married,” he added nonchalantly, “I would like to have a child at some point, though. But if I do get married, I need to find someone richer than me who doesn’t marry me for my money.” He looked intently at Pansy. “Or someone that I know she won’t poison my soup.”

“I know just the right girl,” Pansy grinned playfully, “and I’m sure Millie will never have the courage to poison your soup.” She had to bite her bottom lip to restrain her laughter.

Blaise groaned. “Blimey,” he growled grimly, “you are so funny… I’ve never noticed how funny you were.”

Pansy shrugged her shoulders, flashing him a mischievous smile. Then she opened the first box on the table and raised it to show it to him. “So, Mr Zabini, can I interest you in a necklace that will burn your fiancée’s neck when she lies to you?”

***

Draco paced nervously in the drawing room. His shoes, clicking loudly on the stone floor, echoed through the empty room. He could hear his heart beating almost in time with his steps and the quick pulsing in his ears made him even more anxious than what he already was.

“You are going to wear out your shoes.”

Draco stopped in his tracks and turned to look at his mother standing in the doorway. Her face was impassive and he found it incredibly irritating. “Well?” he asked, his voice cold. “What did he say?”

Narcissa inhaled sharply. “He is still in there,” she replied emotionlessly. To someone foreign, his mother would have looked like a perfect example of composure at that very moment, but not to Draco. He could see that she was on edge just as much as he was, surely for the opposite reason, though.

“I don’t understand why you called a Healer in the first place,” he growled heatedly. “It’s not the first time that she isn’t well. Your potions have always proven more than effective in curing her silly dizzy spells.”

Narcissa looked at him with her distant, grey eyes. She was probably trying to decide if he was being deliberately irritating or what. She had to think that he was doing it on purpose because when she spoke her voice was annoyed. “Don’t you want to know?”

Draco looked away from her. No, he didn’t.

“Don’t you want an heir?”

He closed his fists until he felt his short nails digging into his palms. He did want an heir. A son, Malfoys usually had sons. But not with the woman that he had come to hate every day more. The thing that scared him was that he would have hated his son as much as he hated her. He imagined getting Pansy pregnant, his own son growing in her belly, and that notion softened his expression as he thought that Wednesday couldn’t come sooner.

He was snapped out of his thoughts when steps echoed on the stairs. Narcissa turned to look at the Healer who reached the hallway and took a couple of steps towards the open door of the drawing room. “Healer Smethwyck,” she called him, “please, do come in the drawing room. Would you like a cup of tea?”

Hippocrates Smethwyck smiled gently at Narcissa and nodded. He walked into the drawing room and seemed taken aback to see Draco there. “Thank you Mrs Malfoy,” he smiled, sitting noiselessly on the couch. “I’m surprised to see you here, Mr Malfoy,” he added to Draco.

“And where should I be, pray tell?” he asked coldly.

Healer Smethwyck smile apologetically. “I’m sorry,” he replied, “I’m not used to having the husbands involved in their wives’ medical affairs nowadays.” He thanked politely a house-elf that offered him a cup of tea. “Especially, when the wife is in this kind of predicament.”

Draco inhaled sharply. “What predicament?” he asked coldly.

Healer Smethwyck smiled. “I’m afraid young Mrs Astoria had asked me not to utter a word,” he confessed, sipping his tea.

Draco looked at him with exasperation. He just wanted to know and get it over with. Naturally, if she had asked him to be silent it only meant that yes, she was pregnant. But still, there was a part of him that clung on the hope that she wasn’t. But yet again, if she weren’t with child she wouldn’t have wanted to tell him herself. But maybe it was another predicament that the Healer meant, maybe Astoria was sterile… That would have been rich! All the times he exited her before coming, all that hassle for nothing.

“Astoria, dear.”

Draco looked towards the door to see his wife standing there. Her face was pale and unreadable, her eyes looking attentively at Draco as if to spot his impatience and delight in his features.

Narcissa walked towards her slowly, her face deep in concentration as if she was trying to read her thoughts. “Astoria,” she repeated, “are you…” Her words trailed away and Draco was surprised to hear her voice strained with emotion.

Astoria looked at Narcissa and smiled softly, then she turned towards Draco; her eyes, her huge, unkind eyes, were piercing through his skull as she nodded slowly and waited for his reaction.

Draco’s reaction didn’t come quickly, though. He stared back at her, unflinching. That woman right in front of him, the woman to whom he was married, the woman he would have loved to see out of the Manor, she was about to give him a child and an heir. He didn’t want her to, but he did want a child. So much, and he had never noticed until that very moment. And suddenly, now that it had become real he understood that a child was not only what he wanted but also what he needed.

“Draco,” his mother called him. “Isn’t this wonderful?”

Draco looked at her, she was standing expectantly near the couch. Her eyes urging him to reply.

“Absolutely,” he replied and he was surprised to hear the gentleness in his voice. He looked at Astoria and noticed that she was beaming. She walked towards where he was standing and came to stand next to him.

“I’m sure it’s a boy,” she exclaimed, her hand going automatically to her flat stomach. Draco couldn’t find the strength to fight the urge to touch her belly as well but, as he didn’t find it different from any other day, his fingers didn’t linger.

“Malfoys only have male heirs, Astoria.” As Lucius walked into the drawing room, all eyes turned to him. He looked, Draco thought,  _pleased_. An expression that he hadn’t seen on his father in a long time.

He glanced at Draco with the ghost of a smile on his lips.  _Congratulations_ , he seemed to say to his son.

***

“She is with child.”

Pansy propped her head up on her arms. She turned her face to look at Draco’s naked body next to hers. His eyes were staring at the ceiling and his chest was still rising and lowering quickly.

Pansy crossed her legs and bent her knees, bringing her small feet up to brush her buttocks. She raised her stomach a little from the bed and fished out the cushion that Draco had used to angle her in the most comfortable way to enter her from behind.

“How do you feel?” she asked softly.

He brought his hands behind his head and shook his head. “I don’t know,” he replied truthfully. “I think… I’m not unhappy.”

Pansy snorted softly. “Well, then,” she murmured, playing with a lock of her dark hair, “this is going to be such a lucky child if his father is not  _unhappy_  to have him.”

Draco took a sharp breath. “How do you feel?”

Pansy raised her head a bit more, arching her back in a perfect ‘C’. And Draco must have noticed her movements out of the corner of his eye because he turned his head to look at her. How was what she felt concerning Astoria’s pregnancy important to him? It wasn’t. He didn’t need to know that she was afraid that he would forget her once the baby was born. She didn’t even want to tell him that Astoria’s happiness made her jealous.

“Pansy?” he called her, his hand stretching towards her to pull some locks away from her eyes.

She looked into his eyes and offered him a soft smile. “I’m happy for you,” she replied simply, and after all it wasn’t exactly a lie. She was a bit happy for him. Only a little bit, really. “I’m sure you’ll be a good father.”

He looked back at her as if he were expecting exactly those words, perfectly suited for that very occasion, from her. Pansy was unsure, but it seemed as if he had hoped for something else. He didn’t say anything, though.

She cocked her head and looked at the pillow. “I have to go,” she finally whispered, starting to move on the bed. She stopped when she felt one of Draco’s warm hands on the small of her back.

She looked at him and saw that his eyes were staring at his hands and at the circular movements that his thumb made against the knobs her spine. “Wouldn’t it be nice if for once you didn’t have to go?” he asked softly, stubbornly looking away.

Pansy sighed. “Yes,” she replied matter-of-factly, before rolling on her side. She felt his fingers curl gently around her hip before she managed to worm away from his hands. “So nice.”

***

Pansy downed the small phial of anti-contraceptive potion she had bought at Slug and Jiggers Apothecary.

After so many years, she still followed Narcissa’s instructions on the subject. It had always worked so far, and she had never found the urge to find another method for birth control.

“A phial of this potion before going to sleep on the first day of each month, and you won’t have to worry about unwanted surprises.” She could still hear Narcissa’s tone of voice as she instructed a sixteen-year-old Pansy. It was almost… maternal. She remembered that Narcissa had been gentle with her, before her presence at the Manor had become unwanted.

She felt the potion’s effect kicking in as her lower abdomen contracted a couple of times. It had been painful at the beginning, but now she almost looked forward to feeling the sting. The only tangible proof that the potion had started working.

She threw away the empty phial in a bin under the sink, and opened the bathroom cabinet to count how many of those she still had. Only one more. She would have had to go buy some more before the end of the month. She didn’t feel comfortable with only one in store.

“Pansy!”

She closed the cabinet and thanked Merlin that her anti-contraceptive phials were almost impossible to spot amongst all her beauty and hair products if one didn’t know what to look for, before walking swiftly towards their bedroom.

***

Seven months into her pregnancy and Astoria was big.

Draco had seen her belly growing a little bit every single day, but still, he always felt dazed when he looked at her. He just couldn’t believe that she was carrying his own child. His own son, because the Healer had confirmed his father’s words.  _Malfoys only have male heirs._

Draco wanted to hurt her a little bit less than usual now. When he woke up in the morning and saw her still fast asleep lying next to him, he always placed his fingers on her belly, waiting to feel his son kicking against his palm. The first time he had felt a kick, he had withdrawn his hand in surprise, but now, he just wanted to feel it again.

Astoria had woken up more than once while his hand was touching her. She smiled to him and, once or twice, he had smiled back. He had told himself that he was smiling to his son, rather than his wife, but he was not that certain about that after all.

Those moments didn’t last very long though, Astoria usually had to pee and Draco was snapped out of his mesmerised trance when she rolled clumsily off the bed. But during the day Draco couldn’t help noticing how different things were between them.

They addressed each other more sweetly, now, and their voices weren’t injected with poison. Astoria seemed to spend most of her time resting and walking slowly for the garden and Draco accompanied her every now and then. Even Narcissa’s attitude seemed to have softened. She was already overprotective of her unborn grandson and showed it by urging the house-elves to tend to Astoria whenever she needed a glass of water or a foot rub.

And she now looked at Draco as if he were no longer a disappointment. She even talked to him gently every now and then, never mentioning Pansy anymore. The only person Draco couldn’t really notice to have been changed by the news of the pregnancy was his father, but he knew that it was mostly because he excelled in keeping his emotions tucked away rather than the fact that he was unaffected by the news.

For a split second, Draco wondered why he had waited for so long to get Astoria pregnant. What had he feared? He could feel his heart lighter than ever and living at the Manor had never been more pleasant. If it hadn’t been a tradition to have only one child in the Malfoy household – to avoid bloodbaths every time a father would leave an inheritance to his heir – he would have worked hard to get his wife pregnant again soon after the birth.

He sighed and a dumb smile appeared on his face as he imagined his unborn son. Life was not so bad after all.

***

Pansy felt her heart skip a beat. She moved all the phials and ampoules around and took some out, placing them carelessly around the sink. She was sure she had at least two phials of anti-contraceptive potion. She had seen them the night before. Where were they? It was the first of the month, she had to find them. Maybe… maybe she was just tired. She had been working in the shop all day. She scrunched her eyes up and shook her head, then opened them again. Her sight blurred slightly before coming back to normal.

They had to be there. Somewhere.

She started to take out all the remaining phials, one after the other, she looked at them carefully. Maybe, she had seen it and didn’t recognise it. She shook her head in irritation.  _Impossible_. She had taken that potion for almost ten years, and the phial had never changed in shape, nor the potion in colour. She knew perfectly well what it looked like. She let out a frustrated grunt when a couple of ampoules crashed on the floor.

“Come on,” she murmured urgently, searching every nook and cranny of that damn cabinet. “Where are you?”

She slowed her movements down as she started to check the potions for the umpteenth time. Thinking, at the same time, if she had displaced the phials one time when she was lost in thought, or if they were still lodged in the pocket of her jacket. She had never ever lost them before.

“Are you looking for something?”

Taken by surprise, Pansy took a sharp breath, a couple of ampoules – a hair lotion and an anti-wrinkle potion – crashed on the floor and smoke rose where they came in contact with each other. Her hands went instinctively to the sink as she gripped it forcefully. She had to think and fast.

“No,” she lied, without turning to face him. “Yes, I… I have a headache and…” Her words trailed away as she wondered if that were a good enough excuse. The bathroom was not where they kept healing potions. That was the kitchen.

“You have a headache and?” he asked and Pansy couldn’t help notice how cold his voice was.

She straightened her back. “I was looking for a potion,” she finished, trying to sound innocent. She turned to put up a scene, maybe she would scrunch her eyes up and bring a hand to her temple. She raised her big, dark eyes on him. “I thought I put a healing potion here and I…” Her voice died in her throat.

Borgin was standing right in front of her, in the door frame. He was looking at her with fury in his eyes and his pale face was a masque of loathing. In his right hand he held the two phials that Pansy has been trying to find for the past half hour.

“Is this what you were looking for?” he asked icily.

Pansy’s eyes travelled from his hand to his face. She thought that that little man would have never scared her. He disgusted her greatly, but she thought he would have never managed to frighten her. She was wrong.

“Is this what you were looking for?” he repeated vehemently.

Pansy looked away. “Yes,” she replied and hated the quiver in her voice.

“This is not a healing potion,” he hissed, the hatred badly-concealed in his tone.

Pansy looked at him, she felt like her eyes had doubled their size. She tried to look as innocent as she could. She couldn’t decide what to do, though. Feigning ignorance on the real nature of the potion seemed too improbable, but at the same time she was not sure that confessing her crime would have gotten her less trouble. She decided that she didn’t have to say anything.

He flared his nostrils, his eyes burning into hers. “What do you do with an anti-contraceptive potion?” he asked, his voice low and extremely dangerous.

Pansy felt the ground opening under her feet. She felt an iron fist clutching her interiors and twisting them. She felt like she was going to be sick. And still, she couldn’t reply.

She looked at him in horror as he raised his hand over his head and threw the phials on the floor. She sucked in her breath, her heart stopping to beat for what seemed like an extremely long moment, as they shattered between the two of them, the red potion spilling on the brown tiles. She mouthed a silent, horrified, “No.” Her eyes wide as they followed the liquid running in the rut between the tiles.

Had she underestimated him? How did he know? There were no labels on the phials, how could he have known that they were what they were?

Pansy was so horror-struck that she didn’t even notice him walking up to her. She was only aware of his presence when he slid his hand through her hair and got a grip of her raven locks.

She automatically brought a hand to her scalp, but he just yanked at her forcefully. His other hand went to her upper arm as he pushed her forward. He stood behind her, her head pulled back unnaturally, she could feel his warm, smelly breath near her ear.

She whimpered as his fingers tugged painfully at her locks, and his hand gripped her arm until she felt her muscles shift under his digits. “I don’t like when people make a fool out of me,” he whispered dangerously. “Do you like to laugh at me, girl?”

Pansy whinged as he yanked the hair a bit more forcefully. “No,” she replied, her voice shaky. Where was her wand when she needed it?

“Then why are you taking an anti-contraceptive potion?” he barked near her ear.

Pansy’s hand massaged her head. It was starting to hurt badly. “I’m not ready to have children,” she whimpered as he twisted her arm to force a reply out of her.

For a moment, she thought that he felt sorry for her, because his fingers relented their assault on her body and he didn’t reply. He stood still and she could feel his body taking deep breaths next to her. She thought that maybe he would have spun her around and said that he understood. That it was all right. That they would have waited.

No, she knew that was not going to happen.

His fingers regained their strength all of a sudden. “You are not ready to have children?” he hissed slowly, poison dripping from every word. “You are not ready to have children?” he repeated.

He didn’t wait for her reply. He pushed her forward, making her walk with her head still yanked back. She took a couple of unstable steps until her bare feet stepped on a sharp piece of glass and she jerked in his grip and cried out in pain. She could feel the shards of the phials breaking through her sensitive skin, her steps became sticky with blood as he relentlessly pushed her forward.

She almost tripped over, she was even wobblier on her legs now as she tried to find a place under her feet where there was no glass lodged into the skin. He pushed her out of the bathroom and into the hallway. She imagined an uneven track of bloody footprints behind them and cringed at the thought.

They reached their bedroom and Borgin pushed her forwards, releasing her this time, so that she could fall on the floor as if she was a doll made of rags. She fell on her hands and stomach, whimpering.

“Get on the bed,” he growled to her.

She pushed on her hands and turned to sit on the floor. She brought her feet up, in a loose lotus style position, and checked the damage. Nothing that her wand couldn’t take care of, if only she hadn’t left it Merlin knew where.

“Get on the bed,” he repeated, his tone icy.

Pansy’s head snapped up at him. “I can’t!” she half-cried. “My feet are bleeding.”

Borgin seemed to have no pity for her. He bent down and gripped her hair again, pulling her body on her feet first and pushing her on the bed next. She cried out again, the pain almost unbearable.

“Lie down,” he ordered her in a tone that didn’t leave space for disobedience.

She looked at him with hatred. Her eyes bravely staring into his as she let him see all her distaste for him. She opened her mouth to finally tell him off, but he beat her to it.

“Lie down!” he snarled.

She looked away and complied, ashamed that she felt so powerless in front of her husband. As she laid her head down, she took a sharp breath and inhaled the sour smell of blood still dripping from her feet.

She looked at him with apprehension when he pointed his wand to her. She braced herself for the worst. An Unforgivable Curse, maybe, as he surely thought her disobedience unforgivable. Instead, she heard him hissing, “ _Evanesco_.”

She let out a surprised puff of air as she felt her clothes vanish. She felt even more powerless now. Wandless, naked, wounded. He could do to her whatever he wanted and she wouldn’t have been able to fight him. She just hoped that he remembered that she was his wife.

“Do you think I run a charity, here?” he asked her venomously.

Pansy looked at him. She had never hated him more than that very moment. If she could, she would throw herself at him and close her tiny fingers around his short neck until she saw his eyes roll back into his head.

“Answer me!” he bellowed.

“No,” she replied curtly.

“And why do you think I accepted to marry you?” he asked harshly. “Because of my good heart?”

This time she replied quickly. His question was too easy. “No.”

“What did I tell you when I made an honest woman out of you?” he asked again, walking towards her. “You would have money, a house, food and a job,” he hissed, without waiting for her reply, “and all you had to do was to give me an heir.” He raised his wand towards her again and Pansy braced herself again. “ _Incarcerous_ ,” he said.

Pansy felt ropes shooting out of nowhere and wrapping tightly around her wrists and legs. Her hands were pushed together and up, above her head. He flicked his wand again and she felt her wrists being secured to the headboard. She tried to move her arms, but she couldn’t do anything against the spell. Then the rope around her legs tightened too, she was aware of the cord constricting the skin around her knees as her legs were pushed apart and up, until her buttocks were barely touching the mattress and she could hear the subtle dripping of blood from her feet onto the sheets.

She burned with embarrassment and rage now. Her body displayed to him as if she was nothing more than a piece of meat. She knew why he had raised her legs in that awkward position. She knew what he was going to do to her, probably coming into her all night long just to secure her impregnation with his seed. She felt a knot at her throat, and a sudden nausea rose inside of her. She swallowed hard to keep her dinner down.

“Do you enjoy laughing at me?” he asked softly, walking towards the bedside table next to her head. Pansy didn’t reply, imagining that the question was rhetorical. She followed him with her eyes as he picked something up. She tried to twist her neck as far as it would go to look at what he was doing. There was a feeling in her stomach that was spreading fast – it made her pulse race and her lips quiver – she recognised it as fear. Pure, cold fear of not knowing what he was going to do to her.

“Do you know what I enjoy doing to you?” he finally asked softly and when Pansy looked up, she saw that he was smoothing a pair of thick gloves around his fingers. “Do you know what gives me pleasure even more than your tight, little cunt?”

Pansy knew. But she hoped she was wrong. She didn’t reply.

“Pain,” he told her tersely, confirming her suspicions. “When I pinch at your nipples and you cry out in discomfort,” he hissed. “Or when I thrust into you and you are still dry and tight and scrunch your eyes up for the soreness.” He shivered with something close to pleasure. “I could just come at the thought of your little, sore body writhing in pain.”

Pansy swallowed. Whatever he was going to do to her, she knew that it would hurt.

He turned again towards the bedside table and picked up a box. She had already seen it, but with her fear cluttered mind she couldn’t recognise it. He walked back towards the foot of the bed and opened it. The light from the candles that floated in the room made the objects in there shine menacingly as he held the box up for her to see.

She narrowed her eyes to focus on what was in there and when she finally understood, she took a sharp breath, her hands writhing in anticipation as she tried uselessly to escape the ropes. “No,” she whined and she hated to hear the panic in her voice.

Borgin smiled wickedly. “Yes,” he hissed. He put the box down on their dresser and when he turned to face Pansy he had a coin in his hand. “Isn’t it ironic that you were the one buying this off Mr Nott?” he asked, stepping towards the bed and kneeling between her spread legs.

She shook her head, her wide, scared eyes would have probably made any man take pity on her. Not him though. He looked down at her with anticipation as she tried to move away from him. She knew she couldn’t, but maybe if she kept moving he would have just… What? Petrified her? Grabbed her nipples until she relented? Certainly he wouldn’t have stopped.

He lowered the hand with the coin towards her left side and for a moment she was afraid that he would have pushed it against her breast. The very thought of that made her stop trying to move away, because if he did choose to push it against the soft flesh of her breast the more she moved the bigger the damage.

“You can cry,” he hissed, as he hovered over her. “I find tears quite arousing.”

Pansy felt lucky that she didn’t remember how to shed tears. She decided, wisely, to grit her teeth, because if she were to bit her bottom lip she would most certainly draw blood once the pain started. She followed the coin with her eyes, unable to control her breathing that seemed to increase as his hand got closer to her. She could remember the mouse and how it had writhed in his hand. She felt just as small and as defenceless as that creature. Her chest was now rising and lowering out of control. “No,” she repeated one last time, her voice a whisper.

“The more you move, the bigger the pain,” he reminded her calmly, there was no more anger in his voice, only anticipation and excitement now.

Pansy had to admit that he was right. She tried to take a deep breath and held the air as long as she could, whimpering ever so slightly at the thought of the upcoming pain.

He brought his free hand to her ribs, right under her left breast, and stretched her skin with thumb and index finger. She let out a suffocated whine when he smirked and then…

At first, the coin was icy cold against her skin. She sucked in her breath but didn’t moan, maybe something was wrong and the artefact wasn’t working. Then suddenly, as if, viciously, the coin had wanted to give her a feeling of false security, it burned. It wasn’t the usual burning sensation – like the one she had felt with the necklace – no, this was ten times more powerful.

She opened her mouth to let herself scream in pain but, as much as she wanted to push a relieving cry out of her lungs, she found that her voice was trapped in her throat. She arched her back, involuntary pushing against the coin that he was ferociously holding against her ribs. Her eyes scrunched up, and she writhed in her restraints. She could smell the nauseating stink of burning flesh, a blinding light flashed behind her eyelids.

She pulled her head back. It hurt. It hurt more than anything she had ever experienced. She couldn’t even describe it. She felt her cold body cover with perspiration, some drops entangling in her hair, she took a series of quick breaths and finally managed to find the voice to scream. It was a piercing and long scream that she was sure it had been heard down in the street as well.

“No, no, no!” she mouthed quickly. Then something warm made its way from her stomach up to her mouth and she had to turn her head to throw up.

“No,” growled Borgin, his finger still pushing the artefact against her bare skin. “I said you could cry, not be sick.  _Evanesco_!”

The tangy taste of vomit disappeared from her mouth and instead Pansy felt some saliva drooling on her chin. For a moment, nothing existed except the pain. For a moment, she hoped that her heart would stop beating to make it stop.

She didn’t even notice when he pushed into her. Even though she was still dry, the throb between her legs wasn’t even close to what she was feeling on her side. She wasn’t aware of his seed being spurted in her womb or of his moan of satisfaction when he reached his orgasm. And she almost didn’t notice when he took the coin away from her. The pain didn’t subdue at all, and her body couldn’t move to find a more relieving position. Her muscles were strained for having pushed against the ropes, her back hurt for the way she had arched it and the pain just sucked away all her strength.

She looked sideways towards the wardrobe as he dismounted her, but her glassy eyes couldn’t focus on anything. She was aware of him moving where the dresser was. Somehow she knew that the coin wasn’t pressed against her side anymore, but the pain was still there.

He hovered over her and when he grazed his fingers on the burnt skin, she was shocked to discover that, in some way, she could feel even more pain. She whimpered, gaining a moan of pleasure from him.

“Beautiful,” he groaned, “mine and beautiful.” He brought his hand to her face and grabbed her chin, making her turn to look at him. “Look,” he ordered her, and Pansy looked as he held her own mirror in front of her.

She didn’t have the strength to moan, but she gasped as she almost didn’t recognise herself. At first, she thought that her hair had gotten darker, but then she understood that it was her face that had paled. Her lips had no colour at all and she had purple rings around her half-open, glassy eyes. Her hair was plastered to her forehead and it looked as if even her freckles had lost colour.

“Look,” he repeated, angling the mirror to show her the place where he had pushed the coin.

She whimpered loudly now at the sight of her defaced body. There was a dark pink ring of blisters on her ribs, and she couldn’t make out what side of the coin he had pressed into her, because the figure was all covered in swellings. Around the imprint of the artefact, her skin had become darker as well. As if the coin had released some kind of poison into her, there was something that looked like a big stain that tinted her skin from her breast to her hip.

She swallowed only to find her throat dry. “The colour will go away,” he murmured almost reassuringly, as if the way she looked was the most important thing on her mind at that moment. “But the scar won’t,” he added viciously, brushing lightly on the wound. Pansy sucked in her breath and he sneered.

“Now,” he added in an almost business-like way, “pray that you’re pregnant before the effect of the artefact wears off, otherwise…” His words trailed away, but he stretched his hand to her leg, touching the inside of her thigh as if to show her that that was the next place he would have tortured her.

Pansy closed her eyes and let out a whimper. Still in pain. Still without strength. Still powerless. He withdrew from the bed and walked out, without releasing her.

She closed her eyes and thought that she just wanted to fall asleep and never wake up.

***

Pansy raised her shirt up to under her breasts and peeled off the home-made bandage that gave her a bit of relief. A week later and the pain hadn’t subdued at all. If she felt it less strongly, she thought, it was because she was getting used to it. She remembered the mouse and how long it took it to heal.

Mr Burke’s eyes narrowed as he seemed to study the wound. Now that the blisters had either burst or disappeared, she had managed to see that she would have had a scar in the shape of a dragon for the rest of her life.

“Did he do this to you?” he asked, and Pansy felt a slight relief, for he seemed almost angry.

She nodded.

“Because he found your anti-contraceptive potion?” he asked, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

Pansy slumped her shoulders a bit. Maybe he was angry at her. She nodded again. “How do you know?” she murmured.

He raised his eyes from her wound to her face. “I’m the closest thing he has to a friend,” he replied icily. And Pansy couldn’t help noticing that Mr Burke didn’t say that Borgin was his friend anymore. “I’m afraid he will get angry with you,” he added slowly, “if you try to heal it.” He looked at the wound again. “And I am not saying that my potions would be able to cure it either. This is powerful dark magic.”

“I know,” she sighed, “I just want something for the pain.” Her voice was so tired and soft that she hoped he had understood her.

“I see,” he replied. “Does it hurt now that nobody is touching it?”

“Yes,” she replied softly, “it hurts all the time.”

“And I’m sure he likes to see you whimper all day long,” he continued icily.

Pansy nodded. She remembered how two days before he had pulled her in the back of the shop and pushed into her as if unable to control himself. His right hand was pushing on the wound, his left was pressing against her mouth. The only good thing was that he was quick, too aroused by her pain to manage to last. Yes, the only positive thing of that situation was that intercourse lasted only a few seconds now. And he came so quickly that she almost didn’t even feel him. The pain in her side was too intense anyway to let her feel anything else. It was only in the morning when she tried to walk to the bathroom that she could feel the soreness between her legs.

Mr Burke turned his back to her and started to rummage through the shelves. She didn’t move, every movement was painful anyway and she didn’t want to cover the burn yet, maybe he would give her something to relieve the pain.

He returned with an ampoule with a bright pink liquid inside. “And how are your feet?” he asked her as he opened the ampoule.

Pansy furrowed her brow. She hadn’t told him about the glass in her feet.

He seemed to notice her perplexity because he added, “I’m afraid he likes to brag.”

Pansy nodded. She tried to imagine the conversation between the two men and found out that she couldn’t. How could these two very different individuals have something in common? Did Mr Burke nod and agree with Borgin as he told him about that night? He didn’t seem the pleasing kind of person, nor a man who took delight in hearing stories of torture and pain.

“They are fine,” she replied softly. “I healed them.”

Mr Burke nodded back. He grabbed a chair and sat right in front of Pansy. “This will make it worse before making it better,” he warned Pansy, without looking at her. He uncorked the ampoule and used a dropper to collect some of the liquid. Ever so slowly and delicately he let a few drops come in contact with the burned skin.

He was right, but luckily the sting didn’t last and suddenly she felt a bit of the pain that had kept her company for the whole week recede. It didn’t disappear though and when she looked at her burn she found no difference from before.

“Is it better?” he asked, looking up at her.

She nodded.

Mr Burke corked the ampoule again. “It won’t last, I’m afraid,” he added matter-of-factly. “And I hope that you won’t feel worse when the pain returns.”

Pansy sighed. She hoped that as well. ”Thank you,” she whispered.

Mr Burke nodded. “Off you go, now,” he told her gently, “I have other clients.”

***

> _I can’t come, Draco. I’ll let you know when I can. - Pansy_

***

Draco heard the faint pop of Apparition in the living room. “In the kitchen, Pansy,” he called her, turning the tap off.

He heard her soft steps coming closer. “I’ve brought you some peaches,” he announced, drying them in a tea towel and turning to face her. “They come from Astoria’s…” His words trailed away as he looked at her. For the first time ever, she wasn’t wearing her usual cocky expression nor her smirk. She looked pale, so pale she seemed her own ghost. Her forehead creased every step she took and her teeth were torturing her bottom lip. “What’s wrong?” he asked alarmed.

Pansy stopped in her tracks, her big, brown eyes looking at him without understanding, or better, pretending not to understand, he thought. “Nothing,” she replied, and Draco couldn’t help noticing how soft her voice was.

“Pansy,” he called her worriedly, taking a step towards her.

She raised a hand up to stop him and offered him a tired smile. “Nothing, Draco, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated a bit more forcefully. She sat slowly on a chair and smiled tiredly as she grabbed a peach and bit into the juicy fruit.

He stopped and tilted his head to look at her. Was she doing that again? Was she shutting herself away from him? Why was he surprised? He wasn’t. He was just annoyed. Again.

“They come from Astoria’s orchard?” she asked, licking her lips. “She surely has green fingers.”

Draco didn’t reply, but he crossed his arms on his chest. If she were willing to say something nice about Astoria to divert the conversation from herself, it was surely something important that she was hiding.

“So, how’s your wife?” she asked as she grabbed another bite of the peach. “How far is she now?”

“Eight months,” he replied, the thought of being a father in a month made his voice mellow. “Why didn’t you come for a whole month?”

“I was busy,” she replied simply, standing up and going to the sink to wash her hands from the sticky juices. “But I’m sure you didn’t miss me too much,” she added, her voice a bit bitter.

Draco looked at her with his eyebrows high on his forehead, but she didn’t look back at him. “How can you say something like that?” he asked dryly. She had written four weeks in a row, telling him that she couldn’t come to the flat, and yes, maybe he hadn’t been as disappointed as the other times, but still… he had missed her… he reckoned.

“You used to write back to me,” she explained, her voice cheerless, “you used to urge me to come.”

Draco felt uneasy. “I wrote back,” he replied softly.

“You wrote ‘okay’,” she pointed out, shaking her head. Then she looked up at him with a forced smile on her lips. “It’s okay,” she added, “I don’t expect things to be the same when your son is born, anyway.”

“Pansy…” He walked to her to take her in his arms. But she whimpered and stepped away when his hands went to her sides.

“I have a present for you,” she murmured, looking into his eyes. She smiled softly. “You can have me with my clothes on.”

Draco didn’t understand what was happening. Why was she behaving like that? Why did she worm away from him? She used to love his arms around her. “I thought your husband wanted you to be always neatly dressed for the shop,” he reminded her coldly, “you told me that the first time we met here.”

Pansy looked annoyed. “I know,” she retorted, her voice as cold as his, “and I don’t care.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she replied irritated.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, I can’t do much about that, now, can I?” she asked heatedly.

Draco snorted and shook his head. “You are not as good a liar as you think you are,” he bit out.

Pansy looked hurt at his words. She turned her head away but Draco could see her rolling her eyes. “Apparently, you don’t need me today,” she retorted bitterly, “apparently, your wife has already taken care of you.” She looked at Draco defiantly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be wasting time chatting.”

Draco looked at her with irritation. To him, it looked like she just wanted him to screw her to distract him from whatever was bothering her. Well, he was not a horny teenager anymore, but she was so inviting… He bit his bottom lip and thought that he would have resumed his questions after he had come into her. He just never had to lose contact with her body, so that she wouldn’t Disapparate before he could question her.

He took a step towards her and grabbed her right arm slightly more roughly than he had intended. He pushed his lips against hers and kissed her raw. She responded to him with equal passion, but instead of sliding her arms behind his neck she brought her hands to his wrists, keeping his free hand away from roaming her body.

He let go of her lips and looked possessively down at her. She looked so small and defenceless as she stared back up at him. So un-Slytherin. He started to kiss her jaw, one small, soft kiss at a time, he made his way to her ear and down the vein on her neck. He felt it pulse under his lips. A soft moan escaped her mouth and her fingers unclenched from around his wrists.

He jumped at the occasion to touch her. On her back at first, and then slowly he made his fingers slide on her hip and then up, and up towards her breast.

Her moans were all the assurance he needed to know that she was just loving what he was doing to her and so he didn’t stop, until his fingers almost reached the soft mould of her left breast.

He felt it then, for, as much as she tried to conceal it, she just didn’t seem able to. Her moans turned into chocked whimpers and her body stiffened, her fingers went once again to his wrist and she pushed away his hand from her ribs. She tried to step back, but her legs were already against the kitchen cabinets and all she could do was to try to sit in the sink to get away from him.

Draco stepped back and raised his grey eyes on her. His heart skipped a beat. Her face had drained of all colour and her parted lips seemed to want to suck in as much air as possible. She looked back at him with big, pain-filled eyes in an almost apologetic way.

He was confused and scared. What was happening to her? “What the…” he muttered, as he knelt in front of her. It had been his hand on her ribs that had made her react that way. Had she broken them?

Slowly – not to tease her this time, but to spare her the pain – he raised her jumper and pulled the light blue shirt out of her skirt. He could see her tummy quivering with her ragged breath as he pulled her clothes up, but she didn’t stop him. He pulled it up and up, until a big, purple bruise appeared on her skin. Was that cause of her pain? Had she fallen and broken her ribs? Why hadn’t she healed herself? He kept his eyes on her body as he kept inching up the clothes, and finally he saw it. And he was horror-struck by it.

Right under her left breast, on what used to be her perfect skin, there was a round, pink burn that had scorched her skin raw. Inside the circle of the burn there was a something that looked like a dragon in relief.

He raised his eyes on her and saw that she looked away in what he thought was shame. “What the hell?” he muttered, his voice dry.

“He found out that I was taking the anti-contraceptive potion,” she explained softly.

Draco pulled the shirt up around her breasts and left it there, his hands going down to her hips, his eyes glued to the burn. “Did  _he_  do this to you?” he asked. The anger in his voice was so palpable that even Pansy looked down at him.

She seemed to not like what she was seeing for she looked away again quickly. “Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped bitterly.

He fell back with his buttocks against his feet. “How shall I look at you?” he asked gently.

“Not like that.”

“Pansy,” he whispered, grabbing her hips with his hands and straightening his back a little, “if he touches you again I—”

“What?” she asked angrily. “What would you do, Draco?” She shook her head. “Would you kill him?” She smirked. “Would you kill a man for me, Draco? Would you kill a man for your  _slut_?”

Draco felt lost. “You’re not my slut,” he murmured unconvincingly.

“Yes, I am,” she replied dryly, “because if I weren’t we wouldn’t have to meet in your flat once a week.” She looked away. “If I weren’t, I would be the one you came home to, not Astoria.”

“Pansy,” he murmured, her words were like daggers into his heart. He leaned to kiss her stomach. Once, twice, three times. “Don’t say those things.”

He heard her snorting softly. “Do you want to fuck me or not, Draco?” she asked bitterly.

Draco looked at her as if she were crazy. “No, I don’t,” he replied forcefully, “you’re in pain.” Suddenly, he felt her hand on his head, caressing his hair.

“I won’t be,” she reassured him, and her voice seemed to have softened a little, “if you are gentle.”

He looked up and she smiled softly at him. But he knew, he just knew that she was trying everything she could just to make him forget about her life out of that flat. He should have said no, but he couldn’t. That was his weakness, to see her so damaged and powerless and want to take advantage of her.

Her hand went to his cheek and she guided him up again. She kissed him now while he paid attention not to touch her where she hurt. His hands went to her buttocks as he caressed her there.

“In which position does it hurt less?” he asked against her lips.

“I don’t know.”

Draco felt sorry for her. “How long will it hurt for?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “He did it last month.”

Draco groaned. The burn seemed more recent. He didn’t even want to think what it had been like for her the moment he had tortured her. At the very thought of Borgin’s disgusting hands on her body or of his ugly erection inside of her Draco felt sick, but the idea of her husband torturing her just made him livid. He would have to use all his Malfoy composure next time he saw him.

He let her lips go and looked at her. Bringing a hand to her face he pulled a couple of locks behind her ear. “I’ll be gentle,” he promised.

She took his hand into hers and kissed his palm. “I know,” she assured him.

Draco took a deep breath as if he was scared of what they were about to do. He grabbed her hand and guided her into the living room and towards the couch.

“Lie down,” he told her softly. “Do you want to cover the…” He gestured towards the burn.

She shook her head. “No,” she replied, “it hurts more if there’s something in contact with it.”

He nodded in understanding as she lay down, her head propped on a pile of cushions. He knelt on the couch between her legs and ran his hands from her calves to her thighs. She smiled, he saw her, but she didn’t move a muscle. He gently flipped her short skirt over her belly. His hands went to the elastic band of her tights and he hooked a finger on it. Slowly, he dragged them down her legs, until he remembered that she was still wearing her shoes and had to stand up to take both her ballet flats and her tights off her legs.

He went back to his position between her legs and started to lean down to take off her white knickers, but he stopped. He raised his eyes on her and she looked back at him anxiously.

“You’re not on the potion,” he , suddenly remembering what she had told him.

Pansy shook her head.

“I could get you pregnant,” he whispered and even to him it sounded half like a realisation and half like a hope.

She shook her head again. “I think I’m already pregnant,” she confessed softly.

Draco felt as if his heart had been carved out of his chest. Of course, she was not his wife. Of course, she should have to bear Borgin’s children. Of course, he should have known. And he knew, but hearing her saying that right after he had seen the scars on her body was just too much.

“You are,” he echoed her words dryly.

Pansy nodded. “I must be,” she sighed, “he has tried to impregnate me every single night in the past month.” She sighed. “If I’m not pregnant it only means that there’s something wrong with me.”

Draco lowered his eyes on her stomach which was rising and lowering slowly. It looked as flat as always. Surely, Astoria hadn’t shown signs of her pregnancy until she was in her third or fourth month, but Pansy was smaller and if a baby was growing in her belly he should have been able to see something. Or not. Draco was not a Healer, so he had to accept the fact that Borgin’s vicious attack on her body had already generated its fruit.

He brought a hand to her stomach and caressed it. Even if he disliked the man the thought of a little Pansy growing in her made him somewhat happy.

“And shall we—”

“Yes,” she cut him off forcefully, “we shall.”

He looked at her and saw the resolute expression on her face. He smirked then, deciding that he had procrastinated enough. He slid his fingers from her belly to her folds and caressed her through the fabric of her knickers. She moaned and he looked instinctively up to her face to see if it was for the pain or for the pleasure. He relaxed when he saw her blissful expression.

He pushed the knickers into her folds, dunking his finger into her and delighting when a wet spot started to spread on the material. She moaned a bit more loudly now, but her body was as still as if she were a statue. Probably, every movement was a jolt of pain. When the sweet smell of her arousal invaded his nostrils he suddenly became aware of his erection and how painfully it pushed against his trousers. No, not  _painfully_. He would have never used that word lightly again. It pushed  _uncomfortably_  against its restraint.

He moved her knickers aside and withdrew to unbutton his trousers. Usually, Pansy would have sat up to help him out and maybe touch him or suck him a bit, but this time she didn’t move and he didn’t ask her to. Draco felt slightly guilty at his hard on, he should have kissed her sweetly and caressed her where she didn’t hurt, but instead he was going to push into her as if nothing was wrong.

He lined his erection up with her entrance and pushed slowly into her, so slowly he felt every single muscle of her core contracting and relaxing around him. When he was buried in her to the hilt, he straightened up and grabbed the back of the couch with his right hand, not wanting to maybe fall on her or to carelessly touch her where it hurt in the heat of the moment. He brought his left hand to her hip where he thought she wouldn’t have minded to be touched and inched slowly out.

His eyes were on her face, ready to stop the moment her pleasure changed into pain, if that didn’t happen after the moment when he couldn’t have stopped anymore.

He was slow. He had never been that slow, but he didn’t mind. He actually felt pride in managing to control himself for her sake. He felt like the adult that everybody always urged him to be.

She raised her right leg and brought it around his waist and he saw a soft smile curving her lips. Her hands were over her head, as if she was afraid that her arms could have bumped into the burn in the moment of her orgasm.

He felt the urge to kiss her, to lick those pouty lips of her with his tongue. But as he lowered on her body, his hips pushing against her thighs to let him go as far as possible into her and make him reach her mouth, she cried out. A cry that was not of pleasure, of that Draco was sure. He looked at her, and saw her hand hovering a few inches over her burn. Draco realised with shame that, by pushing into her and trying to reach her face with his, he had made her contract the muscles of her stomach. He straightened up, feeling a surge of guilt and anger for what had been done to her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, real sorrow in his voice.

Pansy didn’t acknowledge him nor his words. Her glassy eyes were staring at the ceiling as he still pushed in and out of her. He saw a drop of sweat trickle down her forehead and realised that, if he wanted to come and make her pain stop, he had to close his eyes and shut out the image of her discomfort.

He did it and imagined her smirking at him, he pushed a little bit harder and a little bit faster now. He could hear her whimper slightly, but ignored her and hoped it was for the bliss. He started to buck against her and when she cried out it was definitely not from pleasure.

“Almost… I swear… almost there…” he grunted and he wasn’t sure to whom he was talking. He felt her leg sliding off his waist and grabbed it to keep it in place, and to touch her at last. He thrust more wildly now, until he could feel his balls tighten and, with a loud moan, he was spurting his seed into her. He grabbed the couch more forcefully, to keep himself from falling on her, and pushed as far as he could go into her, stilling when his balls came to rest against her buttocks. Only when he felt his member softening into her he did dare to open his eyes.

It was a view that made his heart skip a beat. Her face was so white he almost couldn’t recognise her. Her lips too, they were not as rosy and inviting as they usually were, all the colour gone from them too. She didn’t look at him, but her eyes were half-open and unfocused.

He brought a hand to her clit and massaged it gently, trying to resume his thrusting despite his flaccid member.

“No,” she pleaded, and her voice was so broken that Draco froze.

“But you didn’t come,” he whispered mechanically.

She shook her head, still not looking at him. “It doesn’t matter,” she breathed.

Draco looked at her with concern and slowly exited her. He brought her leg down and stood from the couch. He stepped to where her face was lying and knelt next to her. “I hurt you,” he murmured, tracing her white lips with a finger.

“It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, not looking at him.

He lowered his head on hers and kissed her softly. She parted her lips a bit, but she was not really responsive. He didn’t care. For once, he didn’t want a snog, he just wanted to be as tender as possible, almost afraid she could break under him.

He withdrew a little and traced the sockets of her eyes with his fingertip. “If he touches you again,” he whispered, “I’ll—”

She raised her head just that little distance to press her lips against his. “Shh,” she murmured against his lips, “don’t say it.”


	7. A Way of Being Happy

***

“Lie down.”

Pansy nodded obediently. She sat on her bed, the pain on her side still present as she moved, and then slowly she lay down, her head on the pillows, her dark hair splayed around her face.

Mr Burke walked towards her and hovered over her body. “Pull up your nightgown,” he told her softly.

Again, she did as she was told. She grabbed the hem of her nightgown and pulled it up. She raised her bottom a little, whimpering in the process, to make the material slide under her body, and bobbed it up over her breasts. Hadn’t she had a stinging burn on her ribs she would have rested the material on her ribs, but she had no choice.

Mr Burke placed his hands on her stomach. His fingers were bony and cold and she sucked in her breath as he felt around her lower abdomen.

“So?” asked Borgin impatiently from the foot of the bed.

Mr Burke didn’t look at him. “It’s still early,” he let him know, still touching her.

“But is she pregnant?” he asked urgently.

Mr Burke looked at Pansy. “You said you have been having morning sickness, is that correct?”

Pansy nodded. “Yes, Sir,” she replied softly. She was impatient to know just as much as her husband, but didn’t want to show it. “For almost a week now.”

“Any other changes in your body?”

Pansy looked away from his face, which only now she noticed how close he was. “My breasts are swollen,” she admitted, “and I missed my period.”

Mr Burke nodded and straightened up, his fingers leaving her stomach alone. “There can be reasons other than a pregnancy for these kind of symptoms,” he explained, and Pansy felt that even though he was looking at her, he was actually talking to Borgin. “Don’t keep your hopes up.”

Borgin shifted nervously from a foot to the other. “Your pessimism is not welcome here, Burke,” he growled.

Mr Burke finally looked at him. “Haven’t you called me here enough times in the past to know what I’m talking about?” His voice was calm and slightly detached.

Pansy looked at Borgin to find him glaring darkly at his old friend. He crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, next to the dresser. He waved his hand to let Mr Burke know that he could keep examining Pansy.

Mr Burke looked back at her, his hands rummaging through the pockets of his robe as he fixed his eyes upon her. He drew out a phial and held it in front of Pansy for her to see, it was small and filled to the cork with a greenish liquid. “This may not be completely reliable if you’re only a month or so pregnant,” he let her know, “but if it’s positive, then you are definitely with child.”

Pansy nodded. He uncorked the phial and brought one hand under her head to make it raise enough for her not to choke on the liquid as he delicately poured it in her mouth.

It was a sticky liquid and it tasted sour and sweet in her mouth, and when she swallowed her eyes widened. She could feel the potion making its way down her oesophagus and her stomach, as if instead of a liquid she had just gulped down a slimy worm. She looked down at her belly in disgust, imagining to see the potion moving under her skin, but that didn’t happen. She could sense exactly where the potion was though, and the thought of something that felt like it was slithering its way inside of her made her sick.

She brought her hands to her stomach instinctively as she felt the liquid swirling around in her womb, letting out a soft moan, not quite from pain nor fear, more from discomfort. Mr Burke grabbed her wrists gently and moved them to her sides. Then, as soon as her hands were starting to fist the sheets in an attempt to keep them away from her abdomen, something happened. Pansy looked at her stomach as some blue lines appeared, only a few at first, and then more and more, until they covered almost all of her stomach.

She looked up at Mr Burke and saw that he was staring attentively at her belly. She lowered her eyes again and noticed that the lines looked like a tattoo now, but a tattoo of what? It seemed a spongy depiction of some weird… Her eyes widened in understanding. That was the inside of her womb. It was like… looking into her. She was no expert in anatomy, but her eyes scanned the drawing frantically for a glimpse of what could have been a foetus. But there were so many lines and bumps and cavities that she just didn’t know where to look.

When the lines stopped appearing, she looked up at Mr Burke again. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw his face. He was looking at her stomach with the most alarmed and astonished expression she had ever seen him wearing. And when his eyes darted towards her, and stared at her for some extremely long seconds, she felt as if he were trying to penetrate into her brain and read her thoughts.

She didn’t know what to do or say, nor why he would stare at her like that, but she was glad when he looked back at her stomach. Then he took a deep breath and straightened up. He looked at Borgin and he too must have found Mr Burke’s face distressing because he darkened.

And when Mr Burke spoke his voice was cold and distant. “She  _is_  pregnant,” he announced with the same tone he would use to announce that she was dead.

Borgin’s eyes widened as a smile appeared on his face. “Why would you say it like that?” he asked cheerfully. “You scared me.” He walked to Pansy and sat down on the bed next to her. He lowered his slimy lips on her forehead and kissed her. “What did I tell you, Burke?” he grinned, taking Pansy’s hand into his. “This one was a good one,” he continued gleefully, “didn’t I tell you?”

Pansy looked at Mr Burke as he nodded icily and she had to divert her eyes when he glanced down at her, his look almost accusatory. She didn’t understand what she had done to deserve a scowl from him. It pained her, because Mr Burke was the only person she could talk to and ask for help without him looking back at her with pity. She threw that thought at the back of her head and focused on the news, though.

She was pregnant.

She was  _actually_  pregnant. There was a little life growing inside of her, and what had only been a notion until that moment, it was now reality. She lowered her eyes where the lines where now disappearing from her skin. Somehow, the fact that the child was half Borgin’s didn’t matter. It was her child and, even though she had never seen herself as a mother, she felt a warm and fuzzy feeling wrapping around her heart. Her lips curved in a soft smile as her free hand went to touch her stomach. She couldn’t feel anything, yet, but the certainty that her baby was there was enough.

She felt Mr Borgin’s arm slide under her shoulders as he pulled her to him. The movement, even though it was not rough, made her side hurt and she whimpered loudly as he pressed his lips to hers and kissed her.

He backed away suddenly. “Oh sure, sure,” he muttered, looking from her pained face to Mr Burke. “Do you have something for her pain?” he asked urgently. “I think my wife doesn’t need to suffer anymore.”

Mr Burke cocked his head slightly. “I have some potions that will speed up the healing process,” he let him know, “and ease the pain.” He looked at Pansy. “But she will wear the scar for the rest of her life.”

“That’s good, that’s good,” replied Borgin joyfully, “so she won’t forget.” He looked at her and his lips stretched in a creepy smile. “Such a good wife you are,” he murmured, “such a good wife.”

***

Astoria’s due date had come and gone and she still hadn’t delivered the heir that the Malfoys had been waiting for. To Draco’s surprise, though, he was the only one fretting about it. Healer Smethwyck had been staying with them for a month now, a small presence in the house. Draco only saw him at dinner, but still he thought that they were paying him more than he had ever been paid in his career at St Mungo’s.

“It’s all normal,” he had promised them, after visiting Astoria, “some children take a little longer than others.”

Narcissa and Astoria seemed perfectly fine with the Healer’s reassurances and Lucius had not expressed any concerns nor fear, but Draco could simply not wait any longer.

“It’s all right, Draco,” Astoria reassured him gently as he rested his hand on her wide belly. “I’m sure we will be able to hold our son before the end of the week.”

Draco looked up at her and moved his hand away. “I hope there’s nothing wrong with your pregnancy,” he responded stiffly. “It would be terribly unpleasant if something happened to my son.” He tried to sound as cold and detached as possible, but what he really meant was that he would be devastated if she lost the baby. She didn’t need to know that.

Astoria smiled as if she knew exactly what he meant, though. “Terribly unpleasant,” she agreed softly.

Draco nodded curtly. He leaned back against the back of the bench and looked at the frozen grass. It would be December in a few days and the temperatures had been particularly unkind. “Are you sure you should be out here?” he asked, glancing at her sideways. “It’s freezing cold.” To stress his discomfort, he pushed his hands deep in his pockets.

“Healer Smethwyck said that long walks would help speed up the moment of delivery,” she informed him, bringing her hand to her belly and massaging it through her thick coat.

Draco glanced at her. “But we are not walking,” he pointed out. He shifted uncomfortably on the bench, uselessly trying to warm up against the stone.

Astoria sighed and shifted as well.

“Are you okay?” asked Draco urgently. If she delivered his son in the orchard he was going to kill her.

She nodded. “It’s just uncomfortable,” she complained softly. “I feel so big.”

Draco snorted. “Yes,” he replied coldly, “well, you are pregnant.” He tried to warm his hands by pushing them even deeper into his pockets, but found out it didn’t work, so he decided to take them out and put them under his armpits. “We still need to talk names,” he reminded her solemnly. “It’s important.”

Astoria glanced at him and Draco saw her expression darken. “What’s to talk about?” she asked icily. “You made it clear already that I have no say in the question.”

Draco darkened as well. “He is going to be a Malfoy,” he replied stiffly. “He doesn’t need a name like, I don’t know… Basil or Orion.”

Astoria rolled her eyes and snorted loudly. “As if Abraxas was a good name for a child,” she retorted as coldly as the wind.

“It was my grandfather’s,” replied Draco curtly.

Astoria glared at him. “And I seem to remember that you said you had no fond memories of him.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s a good name,” he pointed out, “a good name for a Malfoy.”

“Not for a Greengrass, though,” hissed Astoria.

“He is not a Greengrass.”

Astoria’s eyes narrowed as she looked at him and Draco wondered how far he could push her. He had come to know her mood swings pretty well in the previous months and he had always found them quite exciting. Since most of the time she was sweet and gentle like he had never seen her before, it was refreshing to see her still getting mad at something like she used to do almost every day before her pregnancy.

“He is a Greengrass,” she bit out, “at least, half of him.”

Draco grunted in reply and apparently Astoria understood that that was the end of the conversation, because she looked away with an annoyed expression, but didn’t say anything else.

“My father suggested another name, anyway,” added Draco after some moments of tense silence between them.

“Did he?” asked Astoria distantly.

Draco nodded, not even caring if she was looking at him or not. “Yes, and I like it,” he stated, “so I think I’ll use it.”

Astoria pushed her hands in her pockets and shifted slowly on the bench. “If I have no say in this,” she hissed, “why are we having this conversation at all?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m trying to be  _civil_ ,” he growled, “but I can always name the baby without even telling you.” He looked at her and saw that she was torturing her bottom lip with her teeth. He sneered. “I imagine you wouldn’t like that,” he smirked softly.

She didn’t reply, probably waiting to hear the name that he was sure she wouldn’t have liked.

“Scorpius,” announced Draco proudly. “Isn’t that a fitting name?” He looked at Astoria and saw that she was deep in concentration. Probably pondering if she found the name appealing at all. Well, Draco didn’t care. Or did he? He didn’t want her to hate the name of their child for the rest of her life, after all. She was his mother, she should have found it at least… tolerable. And Scorpius was a good name, a good name indeed for a Malfoy. Draco liked it and he was grateful that his father had found it buried in a book that told the story of their family. At some point in the XVII Century, apparently, a Scorpius Malfoy had killed a Muggle girl that had dared looking at him in the eyes.

“It’s a strong name,” she conceded and to Draco her tone didn’t seem too displeased. “It’s suitable.” She didn’t sound too happy either, though he had to admit he couldn’t make out any emotion at all from her voice.

“So, it’s settled?” he asked her, looking at the leafless trees of the orchard.

She took a sharp breath that brought his attention back to her. She had a hand on her stomach, her eyes wide.

“What’s happening?” he asked her urgently, his hands going to her belly as well. “Are you okay?” 

She smiled softly. “Just a kick,” she replied breathlessly.

“Oh,” was all Draco could say as he pressed his hands into her coat to try to feel his son too.

“It stopped,” she sighed, putting her hand back in her pocket. “I can live with him being named Scorpius,” she added in an almost business-like voice. “If you let me choose his middle name.”

Draco withdrew his hands and looked at her. He considered her words. After all, he had a middle name too, and nobody had ever even used it. It lay there, on his birth certificate that the Healer had filled in the day he was born, but he didn’t even remember it himself. He could live with Astoria picking a name that nobody would remember. “As you please,” he finally agreed in an almost mocking voice. “Do you have an idea already?”

She slid slowly towards the edge of the bench and pushed herself up. She turned towards the Manor and finally replied, “Yes.” Then she started to walk back to the house, noiselessly and peacefully.

***

Pansy looked at her reflection in the full length mirror. She turned a bit, standing in three quarters view, and arching her back. She pulled the top of her pyjamas up around her ribs and pushed her slim stomach out. There was a slight swell there, but she was unsure if it was for the forced posture or the tiny life growing in her. Nonetheless, there was a baby in her. She could sense it now and she loved that feeling.

She smiled softly and caressed her stomach with her bony fingers. Her skin was soft and hairless. She pushed a little on her lower abdomen, trying gently to get closer to her baby.

Pansy was surprised at how happy she was. She had never once thought about being a mother and now that it was happening, she couldn’t wait. She would have someone in that house who loved her unconditionally and she would do the same. She already did. Her son or daughter would be beautiful and perfect and she would worship him – or her – with all her might. And she was sure that Borgin would do the same, since he had been waiting for his heir for decades.

“Ready to go to bed?”

Pansy raised her eyes from her stomach to the man standing in the doorway. His reflection was looking affectionately back at her. He walked towards her with a soft smile upon his lips. Ever since Mr Burke had confirmed to them that she was pregnant, Borgin had been all smiles for her.

He stood behind her and circled her waist with his arms, placing his greasy hands on her stomach. She sucked in a sharp breath.

“Do you still hurt?” he asked her, stroking the dragon-shaped scar with his fingers. His voice was almost concerned, which was extraordinary since he had been the one to cause her that pain in the first place.

She shook her head. “No,” she replied, and it was only a half-lie because Mr Burke’s potion numbed the pain most of the time, but not always. It was passing faster than it would have without magical aide, though, and she was grateful for that. “Your hands are cold.”

Borgin leaned his cheek on her head and spread his cold fingers even more around her warm skin. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in a tone that was not sorry at all, “I’m a naughty husband.” He sneered to her in the mirror.

Pansy agreed. Silently, but she agreed.

He grabbed the hem of her pyjamas top and brought it down to cover her stomach, then he patted it gently through the fabric. “Let’s go to bed,” he repeated, grabbing her wrist gently.

Pansy followed him into their bed. The best thing of being pregnant – apart from the feeling of a life growing into her – was that Borgin had lost all interest in sex. Either he had reached his goal, and now he didn’t feel the urge to come into her every single night as he had done since they had gotten married, or he was so old-fashioned that he was afraid to hurt the baby with his erection. Either way, Pansy was just happy to be left alone and not have to murmur a quiet healing charm before managing to fall asleep.

She lay down and felt – without looking – that Borgin was lying down next to her. He flicked his wand and turned the lights off.

“Good night, Pansy,” he drawled in such a sweet tone that made Pansy silently groan in disgust.

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, her hands going to her stomach again. “Night,” she murmured to her baby rather than her husband.

***

When Draco opened his eyes he knew that he had been dreaming about Pansy. He rarely did dream about anything at all, and even more rarely remembered his dreams the next morning, but somehow this had been so vivid and real that when he opened his eyes he was unsure of his whereabouts.

He had to rub his sleepy eyes to notice that he was lying in his bed, in the Manor. It was still dark, but there was the faint light of the moon that filtered through the curtains and showed the room that he had shared with his wife over the past five years. Astoria was there too, sleeping at his side, breathing softly.

He took a sharp breath. He was not at the flat in London. Pansy was not with him. They were not talking. Cuddling. Fighting. What had his dream been all about? He couldn’t remember too well, but she had said something about a baby. Her baby? His baby? He didn’t remember. Probably her baby… Draco shook his head and brought his hands to his face to cover his eyes. Probably, he was just still shocked that she had let her husband impregnate her, and that had generated the dream. He brushed his eyes more forcefully. He didn’t even know if she was pregnant yet. She told him that a Healer would visit her and let her know. And then she would tell him. Maybe. Only if she wanted to share something so personal with him.

He gritted his teeth, the only way for him to show his anger in the dead of the night. She never told him anything. That thought kept bouncing on the walls of his brain and he couldn’t just get rid of it. But every time he tried to make her talk, she offered to have sex, and he just forgot everything about it. Every single time. She was good. Or maybe he was just a randy young man.

Draco silently snorted at that thought and brought his hands down to his sides, making a squelching sound with his left hand. He furrowed his brow and tentatively stretched his fingers to feel the sheets. They were soaking wet. He sat up, his right hand reaching for his wand on the bedside table.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he murmured, pointing the wand towards the mattress between himself and Astoria. There was a wet, dark spot that seemed to get wider by the second. He moved the bedspread out of the way and noticed that the mattress was soaked too. He frowned in concentration as if to try to make a sense of what he was seeking.

And suddenly, sense was made.

He stretched a hand towards Astoria and placed it on her upper arm. He grabbed her lightly and shook her gently. “Astoria,” he called her, his voice holding the excitement that he didn’t even think about concealing.

She mumbled something under her breath and turned her face slightly towards Draco, her eyes still closed.

Draco shook her again. “Astoria,” he called her, “your water broke.”

At that, the witch’s eyes opened slightly. Probably still too sleepy to realise what his words meant, she brought two hands to her eyes and rubbed them lightly. “What?” she groaned.

“Your water broke,” Draco repeated, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Look,” he added, nodding towards the mattress.

Astoria pushed on her elbows to look towards the spot that Draco’s wand was lighting up. “Merlin,” was all she managed to say as her eyes opened wide. She brought a hand to her stomach and shook her head. “I don’t feel anything.”

Draco flicked his wand and the lights in the room turned on. “And is that normal?” he asked nervously.

Astoria didn’t look up at him. “Probably,” she replied, a hint of nervousness in her voice as well, “I think my contractions haven’t started yet.”

Draco nodded. “I’ll call Healer Smethwyck,” he told her, getting out of bed. He winced when his bare feet came into contact with the cold floor, but didn’t stop to look for his slippers. He was vaguely aware of the side of his pyjamas being soaked with Astoria’s fluid, and in a normal situation he would have already cringed and scoured himself clean.

But this was not a normal situation. His son was on the way. He was going to become a father.

The room that his father had assigned to Healer Smethwyck was one of the farthest from Draco and Astoria’s, and Draco suspected that Lucius had done that on purpose. His father would have simply loved the view of Draco walking as quickly as possible, barefoot and in his wet pyjamas as he tried to reach the room of the Healer in the dead of the night. Finally, toes as cold as ice, he found himself banging his fist loudly on the door of their guest.

“Healer Smethwyck,” he called him, trying to regain a bit of the Malfoy composure. “Healer Smethwyck!”

There was a rustling of bedspread being pulled off and feet on the floor, before the door opened. “What?” Healer Smethwyck asked urgently, rubbing his eyes and looking at Draco expectantly. “Mr Malfoy,” he added when he recognised Draco, “is everything all right?”

“You have to come,” Draco announced, turning to walk back to his room, “Astoria’s water broke.” He heard the Healer murmuring an agreement and then the door closed at his back. A few seconds later the door opened again and Draco heard the hurried steps behind him.

“How long ago?” asked the Healer when he caught up with Draco.

“I don’t know,” replied Draco, noticing that the Healer was now wearing a lime green coat over his pyjamas. “I woke up and the bed was all wet.”

“Has she had contractions yet?”

Draco pushed the door of his room open as he replied, “No, I had to wake her up.” They walked in to find Astoria lying with her lips slightly parted. “She didn’t even notice.”

“I’m noticing now,” whined Astoria, as she scrunched her eyes up and whimpered, her hands drawing wide, soothing circles on her belly.

The Healer looked at Draco and offered him a smile. “I think her contractions started.” He walked towards the bed and Draco could hear the sound of the Healer’s bare feet splashing in Astoria’s water. He didn’t seem to care. He touched her stomach and when Astoria’s face relaxed and the contraction ended he smiled down at her. “Was this the first one?” he asked gently.

Astoria nodded. “Yes.” Her voice sounded much more relaxed than what Draco had expected.

The Healer smiled reassuringly. “We need to see how long before your next one,” he explained gently, “but I think it’s still early. You might not deliver until morning.”

“Is it coming?”

Draco turned towards the doorway to see his mother standing there. She was wearing a long, green dress, her hair was pulled back in a French braid and big, tear-shaped earrings were swinging from her earlobes. Draco found it unconceivable that she had changed for the birth of her grandson, because surely that was not what she wore in bed. 

“It’s still early,” confirmed the Healer, looking up at her with a reassuring smile. “But she is in labour.”

“Marvellous,” exclaimed Narcissa, walking to where Astoria was lying. She smiled down at the young woman and Astoria smiled back. They looked like a real mother and daughter rather than in-laws. Narcissa nodded softly at her as if the mother-to-be had told her something using Legilimency. Finally, Narcissa looked up towards Draco. “Leave us,” she ordered gently but firmly.

Draco didn’t move, torn between the desire to see his son being brought into the world and the knowledge that Malfoy men shouldn’t mix themselves with such matters. He was probably required to wait on a chair outside, or in his study, and maybe smoke a cigar that he didn’t even own.

It was only when Lucius’ hand squeezed his shoulder that Draco understood that he actually had no choice. His father guided him firmly towards the door and pushed him out of the room. He turned just in time to see Astoria raising her head as her second contraction hit her, before the door closed and Lucius came to stand before him.

“I don’t think you’d like to go back to sleep,” he told Draco, looking at him intently.

Draco looked up to meet his gaze and noticed that his father, too, was dressed in one of his best robes. Suddenly, he actually noticed that he had never seen either parent in their nightwear, or if he had, he couldn’t remember. He wondered if he would end up like them with his own son.

Astoria let out a cry of discomfort that reached Draco’s ears muffled by the door. His eyes darted towards the room. He was worried for her. No, he wasn’t. He was worried for his child.

“Let’s go,” Lucius told him, walking towards the stairs. “I’m sure they’ll call us when your son is born.”

Draco looked at the door without being able to move, but then Lucius called him from the ground floor and he had to follow his father downstairs. He wouldn’t have wanted to spend the time before his child’s birth waiting in the hallway and listening to Astoria’s cries as she went through her labour with his mother and Healer Smethwyck.

He finally walked away. His head was light. He was going to become a father, and he felt like he was not ready. Obviously he wasn’t. He still lived with his parents, he still wasn’t allowed to control most of the Malfoy fortune and he still had no clue on how to take care of a child.

For a brief, startling moment, he understood why he liked to be with Pansy so much. Beyond what he might have felt for her, their encounters were the only times when he was in control of his life. When nobody was telling him what to do or how to behave. When he was able to do as he pleased. He missed her at that moment, and was unabashed by his desire of being with his paramour the moment his wife was giving birth to his son.

“It might take all night,” murmured Lucius from the corner of the drawing room where they kept the alcohol. Draco looked at him as he poured himself and his son two generous glasses of an undefined amber liquid. Contrary to what he made his former classmates believe, Draco was not an expert in the art of getting drunk. He didn’t particularly like the fact that all of his Malfoy composure was thrown out of the window when the alcohol went to his head. Nonetheless, he felt like that night his composure didn’t really matter and he accepted the glass that his father was offering him.

“Dragon Barrel Brandy,” explained Lucius as if he knew that Draco wouldn’t recognise the liquid. “It’s fitting for this occasion.” He sat on an armchair and gestured slowly at Draco to sit across of him.

Draco complied stiffly. He turned the glass in his hand and stared as the amber liquid coated the walls of the goblet and then slid towards the bottom again.

“Do you think you’ll need advice from your father?” asked Lucius flatly.

Draco looked at him and saw that he was sipping his brandy avidly, so he felt obliged to do the same. “Advice on what?” he asked hoarsely, the alcohol burning his throat.

Lucius looked at him with a mixture of amusement and annoyance on his face. “Fatherhood,” he replied evenly.

Draco had to sip a bit more of his brandy to suppress a snort. Fatherhood. What kind of advice could he have given him on  _fatherhood_? Draco had always imagined fathers would be affectionate and loving towards their children. Lucius had never been anything like that. He couldn’t remember a time when his father had come to him in the middle of the night, when he was crying. Nor when he had hugged him or played with him.

Yet, all those things were not important in the Malfoy household. His mother had been only a little more affectionate than his father and Draco couldn’t help wondering if in Astoria’s family things were different and if, from now on, things would be different in his house as well. He hoped so. He wanted to be a father, a real father. And he was happy to realise that he could blame Astoria’s softness for his future behaviour. “I don’t think so, Father,” he finally replied, the alcohol already heating up his voice a bit.

Lucius tilted his head and studied him. “Your grandfather talked to me the night you were born,” he let him know softly, “a very eye-opening conversation, I must say.” 

Draco took a deep breath. Now he was sure he didn’t want to listen to his father. What if it was his grandfather’s speech that had corrupted Lucius’ behaviour towards his son? Would Lucius have been different?  _A loving father maybe_?

“I don’t need an eye-opening conversation,” he retorted heatedly, the alcohol now talking too. “I’m going to be an excellent father.”

Lucius chuckled softly, probably amused at his words. When he spoke, though, he was so serious that Draco felt like the conversation had already started without his consent. “Your son will be the Lord of Malfoy Manor, one day,” he pointed out firmly, “you will need to bring him up with this knowledge.” He stared at Draco with eyes filled with gravity. “Like I’ve done with you.” He sipped some more brandy. “Even though at times, I feel like my father would be disappointed in the way I brought  _you_  up.”

Draco’s grey eyes burned with rage at his father’s words. “How have I disappointed you?” he hissed, downing the remaining of the brandy and putting the glass down on the coffee table that lay between them.

Lucius raised his eyebrows a little. “You’re controlled by your emotions, Draco,” he replied quietly. “And you’ve always been.” He smiled smugly. “But I do believe I should blame your mother’s side for that.”

Draco’s fingers dug into the armrests, and as soon as he noticed he tried to relax them. No emotions. He would show him. “I am not,” he retorted, trying to sound as calm as possible without succeeding.

“I’m only saying this because you are my son, Draco,” continued Lucius, “and I won’t be here to help you forever.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Help me?” he asked, and finally came to the realisation that he was slightly slurring his words.

“Help you,” he repeated. “You might have not realised it yet, but those wonderful mysteries that we call  _women_  are extremely dangerous creatures.” He nodded and looked towards the ceiling meaningfully.

Draco raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t saying anything new. “I’ve noticed,” he replied flatly. “But they don’t scare me.” He sneered, feeling confident to have said something extremely bold.

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” replied Lucius unexpectedly. “If you have to fear at least one thing in your life, let it be a woman.”

Draco shifted uneasily on the armchair. He had to pee and he either wanted to go to bed or go to press his ear against the door of his bedroom and see if he could hear his son’s wailing. His father’s words were not making any sense to him; he had always seen his mother subjected to Lucius and, so he thought, was Astoria to himself. There was nothing he could fear from them. He opened his mouth to tell his father exactly that, when he heard steps on the stairs and instead turned to look at the door.

Narcissa walked in the drawing room with a calm expression upon her face.

“Is it done?” asked Draco urgently.

She shook her head. “No, Draco,” she replied, her voice uncharacteristically sweet, “it won’t be long now, though.” She looked from her son to her husband and finally raised her chin and turned on her heels going back upstairs.

“Very well,” murmured Lucius, standing up. “I suppose I will have to write a few letters to inform our closest acquaintances of the event.”

Draco followed him with his eyes. “Shouldn’t I do that?” he asked, but the alcohol had made his brain slow and his movements sluggish and he couldn’t bear himself to stand.

“No,” replied Lucius, “your duty now is to wait for your son.”

He walked past him and Draco didn’t turn to look as he disappeared towards the stairs. He didn’t know how long he had sat on that armchair, but the sun finally rose and he had fallen asleep and had woken up and then fallen asleep again and woken up again. His mother must have lied to him because hours had passed and still there were no news of Astoria and of his son. His father didn’t come back to warn him a bit more about women, and the Healer never showed up.

It was only when the old Grandfather Clock in the hallway stroke eight in the morning that Narcissa finally came down. Her face was tired, there were dark rings around her eyes, but she looked content.

“It’s a boy,” she announced, walking in front of Draco. “And you may go and see him now.”

Draco looked at his mother with a blank expression over his face.

There. It was done. He was a father.

He didn’t know what he felt. Happiness, yes. But also concern and anxiety. He didn’t know anything about fatherhood and probably he should have listened to his father when he offered to teach him.

“Draco,” Narcissa called him, a soft smile playing on her lips.

And Draco nodded to his mother and stood up, ready to meet his newborn son.

***

Draco stood in the doorframe, transfixed on the scene in front of him. Astoria was sitting on the bed, her tired back against a pile of pillows, the bedspread up to her chest, her locks shiny and combed. She had one of Draco’s old blankets in her arms and, from beneath the material, a tiny, wrinkly hand was stretching its miniature fingers.

Astoria looked up at him and smiled tiredly but brightly. “Come,” she murmured, “don’t you want to meet your son?”

Draco nodded softly. He was vaguely aware of his mother behind him and probably his father or Healer Smethwyck, or both, were standing in the hallway. He walked towards Astoria and sat on his side of the bed, which, to his surprise, was immaculate. Someone must have Scoured it, and he was slightly embarrassed that he hadn’t thought about doing the same to his pyjamas. Astoria’s water was now dried completely on the fabric of his nightwear, but he could still feel a disturbing stickiness. He pushed himself towards the centre of the bed, until he was sitting next to his wife.

He felt his heart pounding furiously in his temples as he stretched his neck to look down at his son. Astoria opened the blanket a little to let him have a better look at the baby.

He was small, flushed and wrinkly. Draco wouldn’t have ever admitted it to anybody, but his son wasn’t the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He didn’t care. As soon as he set eyes on that baby, on that child that he had created, he was completely lost. And then he was found again.

That was his son. His baby. Flesh of his flesh. Bone of his bone. He made him. He was his and only his. He would get to bring him up as he wanted. He would hold him as long as he wanted and if he wanted to let him sleep in the bed between himself and his mother, Draco would do so. His son would see him in his pyjamas and he would grow with his father by his side. Suddenly, he noticed how little he had always cared for the people in that house. It didn’t matter, all he needed was his son now.

“Do you want to hold him?” asked Astoria gently.

Like every respectable Malfoy, Draco didn’t like to show his emotions, but he couldn’t help widening his eyes as Astoria didn’t wait for his reply and started to straighten her back and turn towards Draco.

“I… I don’t know how…” he stammered, his body stiffening. He didn’t like his unsecure tone, especially when he knew that his parents were still standing there.

Astoria smiled reassuringly. “It’s easy,” she reassured him, and Draco wondered how she knew that it was easy. Where had she learnt? “Put your arms together. Palms up. A bit more… yes, like that.” She moved closer, raising the baby slightly from her arms. “Cradle his head,” she added, placing their son in his arms. “Don’t squeeze him and pay attention to his hands.” She sounded vaguely urgent as she gave him these orders, but Draco didn’t mind. He was happy to follow her directions, as if she was teaching him how to brew a very complicated potion instead of holding a baby.

When the baby was securely in Draco’s arms, Astoria seemed to relax. She sat back again, but turned a bit towards Draco, her left hand on his arm. “Isn’t he precious?” she asked sweetly.

Draco stared at his son. A tuft of blond hair covered his soft head. His still closed eyes were just a couple of wrinkly slits on his face. His nose, so small it looked like that of a doll, was white and beautiful. He was indeed precious. He felt something he had never felt before, as if his life was now suddenly complete. As if there were a feeling trapped at the bottom of his heart, something he could not quite name, that had finally found its way out of its little cage. Suddenly, he remembered feeling something similar only another time in his life, but he couldn’t quite remember when.

“You can touch him,” smiled Astoria, “if you want.”

Draco tried to move his left arm, but found it glued to the small body he was holding. “I’m going to make him fall,” he whispered terrified.

Astoria giggled softly. “No, don’t worry,” she reassured him, grabbing his arm. “Hold him with your other arm. Lay down his legs on your lap.” She choked back another giggle as Draco didn’t seem to be able to move. “Don’t worry,” she repeated.

Draco relaxed a little. He let her guide his movements so that his son’s tiny feet were resting on his pyjamas, and his left hand was now free to touch him. He brought his pale fingers to his face and noticed how whiter his son was compared to a few minutes before.

He held his breath as he traced his fingers on his soft and warm cheek. He went up to his forehead and grazed down his nose. “He’s smooth,” he pointed out stupidly.

Astoria giggled again and this time Narcissa joined her. Draco didn’t care. They could laugh at him as much as they wanted. Right now his attention was focused on someone else.

He brought his digit to his son’s chin and the baby opened his mouth in a small yawn, his eyes scrunching even further. Draco found himself smiling without even realising it. He turned to look at Astoria and saw that she was smiling too. Their eyes met and for once Draco was just happy to be there with her. She must have felt the same because she leant her head closer to him and puckered her lips. Draco tilted his head and she kissed him. It was a quick, chaste, affectionate kiss. But Draco responded to it and claimed her lips again when she made to withdraw from him.

When he released her, she smiled to him and he smiled back, then he returned his attention to the child. He could have stayed there forever. Let the house-elves bring his food to his room, he was going to cradle his son until he was ready for Hogwarts.

“And what is the name that you have chosen?” asked Lucius, coming to stand next to his wife.

Draco looked up at his father. Lucius’ handsome face didn’t let any emotion show and, though Draco knew that that was the Malfoy way of behaving, he hated him for not showing his delight at the birth of his heir.

“Scorpius Malfoy,” declared Draco, looking at his son to try to see if that name suited him or not. He couldn’t understand if it did.

“Scorpius  _Hyperion_  Malfoy,” corrected Astoria.

Draco turned to look at her and she smiled at him. Her smile was different from the one she had just offered him, though. She was no longer affectionate, she was just smug. And she had all the reason to be, she had tricked Draco into letting her call her son like her own father.

“Isn’t it a lovely name, Draco?” she chimed sweetly, when he looked away from her.

He stiffened, trying to shut out her presence as well as those of his parents and the Healer. Now all that mattered was his son. Now all that was important was the little baby that he was holding.

***

For the second time, Draco had written to Pansy to let her know that he wasn’t going to the flat. He had to be careful now that she lived with Borgin, even though he doubted that he controlled her post, so he just wrote,  _I can’t come tomorrow,_  on a piece of parchment. He didn’t sign it; she would recognise his writing. And if Borgin found out, her witty brain would surely invent some sort of believable lie that would save her any kind of punishment that horrible man had in mind for her. He looked at the owl leaving with the letter and shook his head. How much he hated Borgin! So much that he had thought more than once how easier life would be without him, both for himself and for Pansy.

He took a deep breath and found out that he didn’t want to think about Borgin. Not now that he was going to see Scorpius. He closed the window of his study and walked out. It was almost time for his evening feeding and Draco wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Apart from the joy of seeing his son suckle from his mother’s breasts, he wouldn’t want to miss his wife and his mother finally quarrel over something. In fact, Narcissa didn’t find it decorous enough for a Malfoy woman to want to breastfeed her son. Astoria begged to differ and since that was her child she did as she wanted. The result was a polite but cold exchange of words between the two women during the baby feeding times and Draco took pleasure in seeing the two women being slightly less friendly than usual towards each other.

And in fact, as he walked into the nursery, he found the women of the house sitting there in an uneasy silence.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Narcissa sternly scolded her son. “Your father was never present when I fed you.”

Astoria looked from Narcissa to Draco and smiled softly. Apparently, she didn’t mind that he was there.

Draco didn’t listen to his mother. He walked towards the settee where Astoria was breastfeeding their child and looked at his little hands pawing softly at his mother’s breast. Draco looked at him until a gentle smile curled his lips. He watched his son every day and still was not tired of his plump, smooth body and of all the little things he did; even the most natural ones, like eating or burping, engrossed him.

“Did he sleep well?” asked Draco, tracing his little hand with a finger.

Astoria nodded. “Indeed,” she replied, “I had to wake him up to feed him.”

Draco smiled. “He’s growing more every day,” he whispered, wondering if he had taken enough pictures of him so far. He felt the urge to take some more to show Pansy the next time he saw her.

Astoria nodded softly. “He is,” she agreed sweetly.

Scorpius opened his tiny mouth to yawn and moved back from his mother’s breast, satiated. Astoria pulled her dress back up and covered her nipple. She grabbed her son and, slowly, turned him in an upright position.

“Let me,” murmured Draco, stretching his arms to take him from Astoria.

His wife gave him the baby and put a piece of cloth on Draco’s shoulder to prevent any mishap that would ruin the expensive suit he was wearing. Draco leaned Scorpius against his chest, one hand under his legs, the other on his back. His little, blond head against his shoulder. He stood up and started walking and patting the back of his child.

Walking past Narcissa, he saw her shaking her head softly. “That is not something the father should do,” she reminded them coldly. “Your father didn’t even touch you when you were that little.”

“I am not my father,” replied Draco, without paying her too much attention.

“Obviously,” she hissed coldly.

Draco ignored her altogether as he walked towards the window and stopped to look out. Everything was cold and dead in his garden. It was the middle of December and Draco couldn’t remember a year colder than that. He was glad that the nursery had been spelled to be at the ideal temperature for a newborn baby all day long, because the rest of the house was almost unbearably cold.

A soft, cute burp left Scorpius’ body and Draco smiled and caressed his small back. He was not afraid to hold him anymore, only a week after he was born, he already felt at ease in his new role as a father. And, so far, he had been true to his promise and held him as many times as he felt like it, and he felt like it a lot. The only thing that he didn’t do was changing his dirty nappies, but his wife didn’t do that either. That was a house-elf’s duty.

“Let me put him to bed,” proposed Astoria, standing up and walking towards Draco and Scorpius. She grabbed the baby from him and Scorpius stirred adorably in his mother’s hands. Draco followed her as she took him to his cot and put him down gently, brushing aside his blond hair as he closed his fists and yawned again, a shudder going through his body. “Someone is sleepy,” giggled Astoria sweetly.

Draco brushed his little fingers with a digit, wondering when he would start to close his hand around his father’s.

“Healer Smethwyck is coming tomorrow for a routine visit,” she announced, rocking the cot gently. “But I suppose you won’t be here.” Even though she was still smiling and rocking the cot at a gentle pace, her voice had become sharper.

“No,” answered Draco stiffly, “I’ll be here tomorrow.”

Astoria kept her eyes away from him, but Draco saw her finger grabbing the cot more forcefully. “I thought you had to go to London.”

Draco crossed his arms on his chest. “No,” he replied tonelessly, “I don’t think I’ll go for a while.”

***

Pansy crumbled Draco’s letter and threw it in the rubbish bin under the bathroom basin. She raised her eyes on her reflection and smiled bitterly.  _There you go_ ,  _I’ve been right after all_. Now that his son was born he had tossed her aside like an old toy. He didn’t need to have sex with her anymore; he found his happiness in other ways now. Maybe holding his son in his arms and playing the part of Father.

She closed her eyes and shook her head to send that thought to the back of her head. He just had to wait for her son to be born, and then… Pansy’s head snapped up and she looked at her reflection. She hadn’t thought about it! Once her child was born, she couldn’t sneak out of the flat to meet Draco. She felt an even more bitter rage boiling inside of her. He was wasting the very few opportunities that they had to be together. But if he didn’t care, she wouldn’t care either. She would make herself not care about him.

She brought her hands to her stomach and rubbed gently at it. She was not sure that the swell she could feel was due to the pregnancy yet, it could be food, since Borgin was feeding her so much she wondered if he wanted to eat her at some point.  _Not before his child is born,_  she thought, smiling at her reflection. Luckily, because she would had died for that life inside of her.

“You are going to be so loved, little one,” she whispered, patting her stomach.

***

“And in this one he was yawning,” explained Draco cheerfully, pushing the umpteenth picture in front of Pansy on the kitchen table.

She sighed. She had Apparated in the flat almost an hour before and all Draco had done so far was talk about his son. She knew everything now. She had seen so many moving pictures that she felt like she knew Scorpius personally.

He was brilliant. She had to admit that. He looked so much like his father and yet his features seemed softened by Astoria’s beauty. Pansy’s heart jolted every time that baby did something adorable like stretch or suck on something.

“Isn’t he brilliant?” asked Draco, smiling softly at the pictures.

Pansy couldn’t help smiling back at him. She was actually happy to see him happy. Bugger! She was sure that she wouldn’t feel that gleeful to look at baby pictures and listen to a proud father listing how many times his son had stretched his arms in a day if she weren’t pregnant. Or maybe she would, but only because it was Draco who was talking and she had missed him.

“Look at this one, Pansy,” he continued, circling her torso with an arm and pointing a finger to a picture where Scorpius was in his father’s arms. His fingers pushed mindlessly against the scar the coin had left on her, and she shifted slightly on the chair. The pain had gone completely, now, but Draco didn’t know it and it pained her to realise that he didn’t remember about the torture she had gone through.

“He was two days old, here,” he told her, getting closer to her. 

Pansy let one of the pictures go and brought her hand to his. Annoyed at his indifference towards her, she guided his fingers on her waist. He didn’t even seem to notice. “So, apparently, you had a good excuse to stay away from me for a month,” she pointed out emotionlessly.

Draco stopped pointing at pictures as a tense silence descended upon them. She was certain that he was going to snap at her for her remark, but she felt entitled to bite back if he did. She didn’t look up from the pictures, feeling that any eye contact would just make him angry.

He didn’t seem angry, though, when his fingers squeezed her waist and pushed her a little closer to him. He moved her hair away with his other hand and Pansy could feel his warm, fragrant breath linger on her neck before he kissed her sensitive skin under her ear. “I missed you,” he breathed against her jaw. He nuzzled at her earlobe and Pansy cocked her head to offer him better access at her skin.

“Don’t lie to me,” she replied, smirking, “I know that I didn’t even cross your mind.”

She felt Draco’s mouth becoming less explorative as he withdrew slowly. “That’s so not true,” he growled softly.

Pansy let out a soft snort. She raised her hand to intertwine her fingers with his hair and push his face back to her neck. “Don’t worry,” she sighed, “I can’t blame you.” As he licked and sucked at her skin, she picked up another picture of the baby and a sad smile stretched her lips. “I won’t be able to come too once I’ll have my child to take care of.”

Draco’s head shot up so quickly that Pansy almost jumped in surprise. He moved back, his hands freeing her body from their grasp. “What do you mean?” he asked slowly, his face had darkened all of a sudden. “Are you actually pregnant?”

Pansy looked at him and frowned. “Didn’t I tell you?” she asked, trying to remember if they had already had that conversation.

Draco shook his head. “You told me you thought you were pregnant and that Borgin was going to call a Healer to visit you and—”

“Mr Burke,” Pansy interrupted him, sighing.

Draco looked at her and furrowed his brow. “What?” he asked, without understanding.

“He called Mr Burke,” she explained, “to visit me.” As she looked at Draco she saw his lack of understanding growing on his face.

“Why?” he finally asked. “Doesn’t he have money for a Healer?”

Pansy darkened and shot him a glare. “We do have money, thank you very much,” she hissed, “you are not the only ones who can afford to pay to have a Healer in your house for a month.” But that was probably a lie. Borgin was wealthy, but just not as rich as the Malfoys.

Draco looked away. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered darkly. “I just don’t understand why he would let his wife be taken care of by an apothecary, rather than a qualified Healer.”

Pansy shrugged a shoulder dismissively. “He doesn’t like to have strangers in the house,” she explained.

“He could bring you to St Mungo’s,” he pointed out, looking back at her.

“Mr Burke is experienced enough,” answered Pansy, rolling her eyes at his persistence, “he takes care of most people in Knockturn Alley.” She looked at him annoyed. “And I thought your wife never set foot in the Hospital during her pregnancy or the delivery.” She bit her bottom lip. “And I don’t think you have a say in my pregnancy anyway.” 

Draco flared his nostrils. “Sure, Pansy,” he retorted curtly, “you can do whatever you want with your child.”

Pansy looked away. He had seemed concerned about her well-being and she had just brushed him off. She felt the urge to turn and say that she was sorry, but fought it. She knew it was just the hormones talking, her usual self wouldn’t have told him that she regretted her words. Not those words, at least. Her life was hers. He had lost the right to tell her what to do when he married Astoria.

“But are you actually pregnant?” he asked again, urgency in his voice despite the enormous attempt he made at sounding uninterested.

Pansy looked at him and smiled softly. “I am,” she replied, emotion dripping from every word. She brought a hand to her stomach and let out the softest of giggles.

Draco looked down at where her hand was lingering. Pansy expected him to say something, maybe to congratulate her in a distant tone, or maybe to ask her if she were happy, like she had done when he had told her that Astoria was pregnant. Instead he asked her, his voice broken by emotion, “And are you sure that it’s Borgin’s?”

Pansy’s eyes first widened in surprise and then narrowed to two slits. She clenched her jaw and darkened. “Of course, it is,” she replied sourly. “How could it not be?”

Draco darkened too. “Well, shall I explain it to you?” he asked icily.

Pansy flared her nostrils. “No, you shall not,” she replied as coldly as Draco, “and yes, it is my husband’s.” She rolled her eyes and looked tiredly at him. “Why would you even think those unhealthy things, Draco?” she asked with a sigh. “The thought of your son been brought up by Borgin doesn’t make you cringe?”

Draco lowered his eyes on her stomach and stretched a hand to touch her there. His hand was so different from Borgin’s. He was gentle and warm, while Borgin was intrusive and indelicate. “You’re right,” he replied gently, giving her a soft smile. “But it would be a nice thought to believe that you are carrying my child.”

Pansy placed her small hands on his own. “We could always pretend,” she faked a giggle, “we could play house.” He rubbed her gently and she roughly pushed his hands away. “Except we both have a house already,” she bit out. She stood and walked towards the kitchen sink, grabbed an empty glass and filled it with tap water. She took a couple of big gulps before turning to glance at Draco.

“Oh yes,” he murmured, “you’re definitely pregnant.” He crossed his arms on his chest. “Your mood swings are already out of control.”

“Don’t blame me if you have stupid ideas,” she snorted.

He looked at her without replying, but Pansy could tell that he was annoyed. She didn’t care. She made herself not care. He was just complicating her life with his affectionate words and she didn’t want to think about his stupid ideas.

She finally sighed. “Do you want to have sex?” she asked and cringed at her tired tone of voice. She had just made it sound like a chore.

Draco arched an eyebrow, he must have picked on her tone. “Don’t be too enthusiastic about it,” he replied coldly. 

Pansy put the glass down and lowered her eyes. “I know, I’m sorry,” she sighed softly, “I just…” She shook her head softly, her voice trailing away. “Nothing.”

“No,” snapped Draco, “you what? Tell me!”

Pansy bit her bottom lip. “Nothing,” she repeated unsurely, “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Draco stood up and walked to her. He placed a hand on her waist and the other under her chin, making her raise her face. “Is it the pregnancy or is  _he_  not treating you well?” he asked seriously.

Pansy looked into his eyes. “The pregnancy, I guess,” she replied softly, “listen, can we not talk about Borgin? I see him day and night, I don’t need to hear you reminding me about his existence even when he isn’t here.”

Draco’s face seemed to soften. “Sure,” he agreed. He pulled her to him and hugged her gently, paying attention not to squeeze her belly. He leaned his cheek against her hair and inhaled deeply. “You smell so good,” he whispered.

Pansy melted in his arms, she hid her face in the hollow of his shoulder and smiled against his skin. Her own arms went to his waist to hug him back. It was a nice feeling to be held close like that. Weirdly enough, at that moment, she remembered that nobody, except for Draco, had ever embraced her in that way.

“Yes,” he finally breathed, as his hands were stroking her back. 

“Hmm?” she murmured unsure of what he was talking about.

“Yes, I want to have sex with you,” he whispered, his warm breath caressing the shell of her ear.

Pansy closed her eyes. She didn’t really know why, but she was disappointed by his positive reply to her question. She just didn’t want him to let her go, not even to push her on the bed – or the couch, or the table, or the floor – and thrust into her until they both came. She just wanted to stay like that a little longer.

But as her desire was left unexpressed, she couldn’t really blame him for letting her go and starting to kiss her. His mouth was ravenous as he bit her lips and demanded access to her mouth with his tongue. She let him in and responded with equal passion at his attack. She sucked on his tongue and he let out a groan. When he withdrew he was panting slightly, just like her.

“How do you want to do it?” he asked, pulling a couple of raven locks away from her eyes and smiling in anticipation.

Pansy shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t know,” she replied truthfully.

“How do you do it with…” He didn’t finish his sentence, his eyes lowering a bit, probably noticing that he had just brought Borgin one more time into the conversation.

“We don’t,” she admitted. “You and Astoria?”

Draco smirked softly. “She sucked me and then touched herself.”

Pansy looked at Draco without really believing him. He had never mentioned his abstinence when she had seen him in the past months, and it was surely hard to believe that he hadn’t once pushed into Astoria while they were in their cold bedroom at the Manor. Even though she had to admit that, considering the way he talked about Astoria and Scorpius, it made sense that she had been afraid of hurting the baby when he was still in her womb. “Do you want me to suck you until you come?” she asked, smiling seductively. She stretched a hand towards his crotch and palmed his member through his trousers.

Draco groaned. “No,” he whispered, huskily, “I want to be in you.”

She unbuttoned his trousers and dunked her hands in his underwear. She could feel his half-hard member stir to life under her fingers and Draco’s muscles tensing as she pleasured him.

“You do?” she whispered sensually. “Do you want to feel me? Come into me?” She wrapped her hands around his erection and pumped a bit more firmly. “Make me scream?”

Draco grunted something, and as Pansy looked at him she saw his eyes almost completely dark with lust.

“I didn’t quite catch that, Mr Malfoy,” she smirked.

Draco pushed his own hands in his trousers and grabbed her wrists. “I said that I want to be in you, Pansy,” he growled, “don’t bring me off yet.”

Pansy withdrew her hands and stepped back, she delighted in his groan at the loss of contact. She curled her lips in a smug smile and walked towards the door. “I want to be comfortable,” she let him know. “Let’s use the bedroom for once.”

Draco agreed because he followed her without uttering a word. Pansy could hear his unsteady steps behind her and imagined him walking with a hand on his erection. When they walked into the room, she turned to look at him. He was still slowly jerking himself off, but only, it seemed, to quench his desire of being touched rather than to reach an orgasm.

“Get naked,” she ordered, as she started to strip herself.

Draco growled. “Since when do you give me orders?” he asked teasingly, his hand letting his erection go to start to undress.

Pansy gave him a sensual smile, but didn’t reply. She stripped quickly, after all, she didn’t even know how long they had been there – they had watched picture after picture and time had passed. Borgin was surely starting to wonder where she was; he had become a bit too overprotective of her since she had gotten pregnant.

“Merlin!”

When Pansy discarded her knickers on the floor she looked up at him, sure to find his eyes glued to her most intimate places and a lusty expression over his face. Instead, he looked concerned and ashamed, his eyes on her ribs.

“Pansy,” he breathed out, “I’m sorry… I… I forgot… I…” He walked towards her and brushed his fingers to her scar. “Did I touch you? Does it still hurt?” He looked at her and caressed her cheek. “Did  _I_  hurt you?”

Pansy wanted to tell him that he had touched her, but somehow that was not what came out of her mouth. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she breathed softly, “don’t worry.” And to stress that she was fine, she stood on tiptoes and kissed him. He relaxed and kissed her back, his hands roaming freely on her naked body. He brought a hand to her scar and lightly brushed the dragon that would forever be impressed in her skin. She wiggled away from his hand and broke the kiss.

“I thought you said, it didn’t hurt anymore,” pointed out Draco sternly.

Pansy shook her head. “It doesn’t,” she confirmed, “I just don’t like you to touch me there.”

Draco swallowed and nodded and she was glad he understood.

Pansy sat on the bed and looked around herself. She was unsure about what to do. What position would assure that he wouldn’t crush her stomach in the heat of his orgasm? After all, he cared for her, but she wasn’t carrying his child. He probably didn’t care  _that_  much. Lying on her back was out of the question, as it was lying on her stomach. Maybe she could ride him; that would permit her more control of the situation.

“Lie down,” she told him, raising her eyes to look at him.

Draco brought his hand back to his erection as he walked to the side of the bed and knelt on it. She turned to look at him as he crawled to the middle of the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight. He lay down, his feet nudging playfully at her buttocks. She smiled at him as she crawled on the bed too. Standing on all fours, she lowered her mouth to his member and blew her warm breath on its head. She grabbed the base and licked his length before wrapping her lips around it. She bobbed her head up and down, sucking and licking in earnest, until he let out a sigh and she felt him tense. She withdrew a little and slowed down, not wanting for him to come before she even lowered herself on his erection.

He stretched a hand towards her waist and pulled her bottom towards his face. He dragged her knees on the mattress until she felt him raise her leg and place it on the other side of his body, straddling him. She arched her back in anticipation when she felt his warm breath on her inner thighs. She could almost feel his muscles tense as he raised his head between her legs. As he dipped his tongue in her folds, Pansy moaned around his erection. He licked tentatively at her, alternating his tongue and his teeth against her rapidly wetting centre.

When he took her clit in his mouth and massaged it with his lips, she tried to move away from him, afraid that everything would be over too soon. He didn’t let her, though, his arms sneaked under her thighs and she felt his hands push on the small of her back to keep her in place.

The more firmly he sucked on her clit the deeper she took him in her mouth, until she had to tilt her head back to take him deep in her throat. She moved her tongue around and licked and sucked him until she had to come up for air.

She let out a groan when he inserted a finger into her, his lips never leaving her clit. When he pulled his finger out and added a second one, she felt electricity going through her body.

“Draco, wait,” she groaned, “I want to ride you.”

He growled something that Pansy didn’t quite catch, but his hands finally released her and she slid down his abdomen and to his groin. She knelt, giving him her back, and raised her hips. Her hand went to his erection as she grabbed its base and lined it with her entrance.

She lowered herself slowly, savouring every inch of his hard member against her walls and sucking in her breath at the slight sting that he caused her. She tilted her back to the right, leaning her palm against the mattress as she kept using her other hand to guide him into her. He didn’t move, apparently, waiting for her to do as she pleased to make it as enjoyable as possible.

When he was finally sheathed in her to the hilt, she stopped. Moaning slightly, Pansy straightened her back and braced herself on his thighs. She could feel his erection deep inside of her and she savoured the feeling. She rotated her hips tentatively and Draco grunted loudly. She smiled at that sound and did it again.

Draco’s hands went to her hips to guide her movements. He made her rise a little and started to shove into her. Slowly at first, then he picked up a quicker pace almost immediately. She tried to rise and lower in response to his thrusts, but his hands were grasping at her hips almost painfully and she couldn’t help wondering if she would be bruised later.

Draco’s hands moved up to her sides, until he was cupping her breasts, pinching at her nipples. She knew he had to be uncomfortable in this new position because the stiff muscles of his lower abdomen were brushing against her buttocks and his breath was more and more ragged with every thrust.

She couldn’t think about Draco’s strained muscles, though, because right at that moment, all she could think about was the building of her orgasm. She curled her toes and gripped his thighs more forcefully as she felt the wave of pleasure rippling through her insides. She ground her knees around his legs and raised her bottom a little to increase the stimulation on her clit. She came forcefully, loud moans leaving her lips as her body stilled on top of him and she coated his erection with her fluids.

She didn’t even notice that Draco’s hands had left her breasts and slid down her sides and that his thrusts became slower. She did notice when he grabbed her waist and pulled her suddenly back towards him. She let out a surprised cry as she found herself lying back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her ribs and pushed her to her side. He spooned her little body from behind and, still inside of her, he started to thrust into her in earnest again.

She had a leg trapped under his, but neither of them seemed to care as his thrusts became quick and erratic once again. She raised her other leg and placed her ankle on his hip. He hugged her more tightly, and she could feel every single muscle of his chest jolting against her back and bottom. He shoved into her as if life depended on it, with raw passion and lust. She placed her hand on his and he opened his fingers to let her intertwine her fingers with his. She scrunched her eyes up as she felt her second orgasm start to set her nerves on fire.

He sped up, pushing his hips against her bottom with every thrust. Finally, he grunted and hid his head in her hair, biting down on the milky skin of her shoulder as he came into her. Pansy felt his seed spurting against her walls and ground against him. He lowered his hand to her clit and pushed his thumb absentmindedly against it. She opened her eyes, screaming her second orgasm with her mouth half pressed against the pillow.

He didn’t release her for what seemed ages. He licked at the spot where he had bitten her and soothed her skin. His hands slid on her belly, caressing it gently. She put her leg down and closed her eyes.

Finally, he withdrew, exiting her with a subtle pop and releasing her stomach. She didn’t move, tired in her after orgasm glow. He leaned over her and kissed her delicately on her cheek. “I have to go,” he whispered, “I want to be back in time for Scorpius’ feeding.” He gave her a sheepish look and a soft smile before she felt him leave the bed.

As he walked out of the bedroom she wondered if he had ever felt like she was feeling at that very moment. She had always been the first one to leave, having to be back to work or to go to her husband. She had never thought of his feelings. Had he ever felt like she did? Cheap and used?

***

Draco sat on the settee with Scorpius in his arms. He was humming a lullaby that his mother used to sing to him when he was a toddler. He couldn’t remember the words, but he remembered the tune. He hadn’t sung in such a long time, though, that even his humming was out of tune.

Scorpius scrunched his eyes up, flared his small nostrils and opened his mouth to start wailing and Draco looked at him in dismay.

“No, no, no,” he whispered gently. He pushed a fingertip inside his mouth and sighed in relief as the baby started to suck on it. “There,” he murmured, “we don’t want to wake your mother, now, do we?”

Scorpius brought his little fingers to his hand and closed them around Draco’s digits. Draco couldn’t help smiling as his son suckled on his finger with a peaceful expression on his face.

Draco sighed. “Had I known that you were so perfect,” he whispered to him, “I would have made you years ago.” He smiled. “It took me long enough to bring you to this world, didn’t it?” His thumb stroked Scorpius’ chin. “Don’t tell your mother, but I am so happy you were born.”

Draco rocked him a little in his arms and Scorpius yawned around his finger. “You know,” he murmured thoughtfully, “I just wish Pansy could see you.” He frowned slightly. “I mean, she saw your pictures, but I wish she could see you for real.” He felt a weird sadness at the knowledge that that would never happen. “I’m sure she’ll be a good mother,” he whispered, “she’d cradle you in your sleep and feed you when you’re hungry.” He closed his eyes to imagine Pansy in the nursery, taking care of Scorpius as if he were hers. He opened them again to find his son sleeping. “Oh, but she’ll be a mother,” he added bitterly, “only not to my child.”

Draco stood up and brought his son to the cot. He laid him down with caring gestures, paying attention that he was in a comfortable position. When he made sure that he would be happy like that, he leant his elbow against the cot and placed a big, warm hand on his stomach, rocking him silently from side to side. “I promise you one thing, Scorpius,” murmured Draco sweetly, a gentle smile stretching upon his face, “when the time comes, you will marry whoever you want.” He sighed, thinking about Pansy. “I swear.”


	8. A Problem Solved

***

Pansy brought a hand to her stomach and opened her mouth in surprise. If she was not mistaken, that was a kick. The very first kick her child gave her. She fumbled with the buttons of her shirt and placed her warm hand on her bare skin. There it was again. Faint but real, like a sign to let her know that everything was well.

She smiled gently and let out a giggle. She didn’t often giggle, but she felt like this special event required a silly laugh. She stayed like that with her hand on her belly for what seemed ages, until she started to smell something burning in the pot in front of her and had to resume the cooking she was doing.

The mashed potatoes had stuck to the bottom of the pot, but most of it was still of a nice, fluffy consistency. The sausages were yet to be ready. The best thing about being pregnant was that she could cook whatever she liked and felt like eating at that moment. Borgin never asked her for a particular dish anymore, and if she wanted to have bangers and mash for ten days in a row, he never complained. He also never asked her to help in the shop anymore. Only when he had to leave to see Mr Burke or visit a client, was she left there to attend Borgin and Burkes alone. But she didn’t mind; it was never for more than a few hours a week. And she could take as many walks as she wanted, and do some shopping with the money that he gave her.

Had Pansy known that her husband would have been like that, she would have let him impregnate her on their wedding night. She had never been happier; the only moments of her life that could have compared to what she was feeling at that moment were the ones she had spent with Draco. But those moments held a feeling of impending sorrow, while what she felt now was pure bliss.

“Do I smell something burning?” asked Borgin, walking into the kitchen.

Pansy turned to smile brightly at him. “The baby kicked,” she blurted out happily.

She still marvelled when Borgin showed her how content he could get about their child. “Did it?” he asked delighted, walking to her and placing his hands on her round belly. “How wonderful!”

Pansy nodded, letting him roam her stomach without complaining about his rough movements. “It was here,” she told him, raising her shirt a little to show him the spot where she had felt the little foot pushing against her skin.

“Wonderful, wonderful,” he drawled, raising his head to peek over her shoulder at the food she was cooking. He licked his lips in anticipation. “Burke will be here after dinner to check on you,” he let her know. “I’m confident he’ll find that everything is in perfect order.”

Pansy nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. She had never felt better in all her life, after the first few months filled with tiredness and morning sickness, she was now just healthy and full of energy. Her hair was shinier than ever and her nails had never been stronger. Her skin was porcelain, and every time someone saw her they couldn’t help complimenting her on her appearance. Draco in particular didn’t seem able to tear his eyes away from her when they were together. She liked the feeling of being the centre of attention everywhere she was. It had been such a long time since she had felt so important, and she loved the sensation.

“I’ve decided something,” declared Borgin, snapping her out of her thoughts. She turned to look at him and saw that he was sitting at the table, the Daily Prophet open in front of him.

“You have?” she asked, unsure if that were good or bad news for her.

He nodded without looking at her. “I’ve decided that if it’s a boy I’ll name him after me.” He smiled contently. “And if it’s a girl,” he added, looking up to finally meet her eyes, “you can name her what  _you_  like.”

Pansy smiled a little. “Thank you,” she sighed, thinking that she surely should have been allowed to name her child whatever she wanted, no matter the sex. But how she hoped she was having a girl now!Of course, a boy would have been just fine too, but the thought of being able to name her child was so exciting she started to think about names right at that moment.

“And, you should start converting the spare room into a nursery, don’t you think?” he added as an afterthought. “I’m sure you have enough taste to do it without my guidance, don’t you?”

Pansy felt butterflies in her stomach. She would be able to decide how her child’s room would look like too. She just couldn’t wait to start planning.

“Is dinner going to be long?” he asked, eyeing the pots meaningfully.

Pansy turned to find dark smoke rising from the pan where the sausages were cooking. But even though their dinner that night was slightly burned, she didn’t really care. All she could think about was her unborn child and how happy she would be. Only four more months and she would have been able to hold the baby in her arms. She couldn’t wait.

***

Draco gripped her hips and pushed slowly into Pansy.

He stopped when he was only half-way into her. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked nervously when she lowered her eyelids and bit her bottom lip.

Pansy took a deep breath and opened her eyes. She looked down at him and he could see her pupils completely dilated with lust. “I’m okay,” she breathed out.

“We can stop if you don’t—”

“I’m okay,” she repeated more firmly.

He nodded. He stretched his fingers on her sides and brushed his thumbs over her swollen belly. Ever since she had become that big the only position in which they could have sex was when she rode him. Otherwise, her belly was always in the way. She was big now, and somehow, Draco loved it. Her breasts were suppler and bigger, and it was a delight for him to suck on the dark nipples or to cup them with his palms. Her bottom was rounder and fleshier too, and he just liked to bite it and pinch on it with his fingers. But the thing that he liked the most about her new appearance was her belly. So round and perfect, with just the slightest trace of down from her navel to her centre. He liked to touch it and to kiss it and to lean his ear against it to hear the baby move.

He didn’t even know why he liked it so much. He was aware of the fact that it wasn’t a healthy feeling, that the child Pansy was carrying was not his own. But he didn’t seem to mind that it was Borgin’s. All that mattered to him was that it was Pansy’s baby, that the person that he cared for most in the world was expecting another person.

She grabbed his wrists, snapping him back to reality. “My legs are getting tired,” she complained, “if you don’t move I’ll just get off you.”

Draco bit his bottom lip and nodded resolutely. He gripped her hips and brought her down to him as he finally pushed all the way up in her.

She let out a strangled cry and he stopped. His big hands drawing circles on her sides and bottom to sooth the discomfort. He was happy to stop and exit her if that caused her too much pain, and he was not worried to leave things unfinished, since he knew perfectly well that she would have offered to give him head until he came.

He didn’t even have to ask her if she wanted to stop though, because, even before he could open his mouth, she started to rotate her hips on him. Her tiny hands were curled on his chest and her breasts were swaying beautifully a few inches from his nose. He could feel the swell of her stomach pushing against his lower abdomen, and her buttocks brushing his thighs and he just thought that he wanted to touch her over and over again.

His erection started to pulse and when she ground her walls around it, Draco couldn’t help groaning. She was still so snug around him, and Draco prided himself into knowing every inch of her body, inside and out. When he felt his balls tighten he knew he was close. He grabbed her hips and started to thrust into her in earnest. She stopped rotating her pelvis, and stiffened her back. Leaving his chest, she brought a hand to her lips and started sucking on her finger. She closed her eyes and cried out as her walls contracted around him. His own eyes rolled at the back of his head as she pulled him with her. He cried out too, thrusting into her a couple of more times until the last drop of semen left his softening member.

When he managed to focus his eyes again, he looked at Pansy. She was softly rubbing her nipple with a saliva-coated finger, and her walls still contracted around him every now and then, making her moan in delight. He wanted to reach her face and kiss her, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do so with her belly in the way, so he just raised his head from the bed and kissed her on her cleavage.

She opened her eyes and looked down at him. A soft smile stretching on her flushed face. She leaned down and kissed his forehead, before pushing on the mattress with her hands and knees to dismount him. He guided her on the bed with his hands on her back and waist, and she lay down next to him.

“You look ravishing,” he breathed, looking at her glowing skin as she caught her breath from the pillow next to his.

Pansy rolled her eyes jokingly. “Please,” she growled softly, “I’m a whale.”

Draco couldn’t help smiling. He rolled on his side and propped his head on his palm, his other hand going to her stomach to caress it. “You’re perfect,” he corrected her.

She snorted at the compliment. “You’re just blinded by fatherhood,” she told him matter-of-factly. “You have a child that you adore and suddenly everything that has to do with bringing another life into this world enthrals you.” She chuckled. “I just so happen to be pregnant at the right moment.”

He lowered his head to hers and kissed her on her pouty lips. “I just think that you’re perfect,” he replied simply.

She stretched like a cat and brought her hand to her belly. He grabbed it with his and enlaced his fingers with hers.

“So, is it a boy or a girl?” he asked her, leaning his head on the pillow next to hers.

“We don’t know,” she replied, smiling.

Draco frowned sternly. “You are in your third trimester and still don’t know the sex?” he asked her darkly. “Burke mustn’t really be as good as you told me.” He squeezed her hand. “I can take you to St Mungo’s for a visit if you want,” he added, trying to sound as casual as possible.

Pansy looked at him with a half-surprised expression on her face. Had he overstepped their boundaries? Probably he shouldn’t have offered to take her to a public place as if he were…  _her husband_. But, Merlin! Borgin irritated him endlessly. Did he really care that little for her?

She shook her head. “No,” she explained, “I don’t want to know.”

Draco was surprised. Naturally, he had known his whole life that he would have had a son; that was the way things worked in his family. And he didn’t particularly care for surprises anyway. To him, it was unconceivable that she wouldn’t want to know the sex of the child she was expecting. “Why?”

Pansy bit her bottom lip, her dark eyes filling with something undecipherable. “He said I could name the child if it’s a girl,” she let him know, “and hope is the last thing that dies, so…”

“Oh,” was all Draco could say as her words trailed away. “I hope it’s a girl, then,” he added, grinning.

Pansy shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t mind,” she let him know, “I’m sure either way I’ll be happy.”

He brushed a few raven locks from her eyes. “Aren’t you happy now?” he asked softly.

Pansy smiled softly at him. She stretched a hand to cup his cheek and half-closed her eyes. “Only when I’m with you,” she whispered.

Draco felt that that simple sentence had thousands of implications, but didn’t quite feel like exploring them at that moment. Instead, he pulled Pansy closer to him, his free arm sliding under her shoulders to hug her. He dipped his nose in her hair and inhaled her scent deeply. She smelled good. Even better now that Borgin wasn’t touching her. He felt her stiffen in his arms.

“I…” she started hoarsely, the words dying in her throat.

Draco sighed. “I know,” he murmured, “you have to go.”

She pushed her face against his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she murmured back, “you know that if I—”

“Yes,” he cut her off, “if you could, you would stay.”

She kissed his collarbone with her wet lips. “I’ll see you next week, okay?” she breathed against his pale skin.

Draco nodded. “Yes, next week.”

***

“Oh Merlin!”

Pansy raised her eyes from the artefact she was examining – a glass eye that followed people with its stare – and met the gaze of a tall, dark-skinned young man.

“Bulstrode was right!” exclaimed Blaise. “You  _are_  pregnant.” He seemed surprised beyond recognition and Pansy wondered why.

“Blaise,” she addressed him with a soft smile. She would have never smiled as she greeted him in the past, but those crazy hormones of hers were making her soft.

“Pansy,” he greeted her back with a grin. “I can’t believe Bulstrode was actually telling the truth.”

Pansy tilted her head a little. “Are you surprised that she wasn’t lying or are you surprised that I’m pregnant?”

Blaise seemed to think at her question. “Both,” he finally replied. “No,” he added suddenly, “she always tells the truth when she comes.” He tapped his chin with a finger. “I’m surprised that you’re pregnant.”

Pansy looked away from him, troubled that they would talk about her during sex. “I wonder why,” she snapped curtly.

He shrugged his shoulders. “Just never saw you as the mummy type,” he informed her. “Where is your husband, by the way?” he asked, looking around.

“Out,” she replied, putting the glass eye away in a box. “Did you need something?” She raised her eyes on him. “Are you still engaged?”

He smiled broadly. “No,” he replied, “thanks to you.”

Pansy eyed him warily. “Thanks to me?” she asked slowly. “Did you burn your fiancée’s neck with the necklace you bought from me?” She was slightly afraid to find out. She had always thought that Blaise didn’t enjoy that kind of thing – like torturing a girl – but maybe she was mistaken.

He laughed at her discomfort. “No,” he answered. “I let her find the necklace and told her it was for another girlfriend of mine.” He smirked. “She shrunk my penis to the size of a Billywig, but I've never heard from her again.” He looked at her seriously and hurried to add, “Now it's back to normal, though.”

Pansy raised her eyebrows. “Great,” she murmured. “Glad to have been of some help.” She brushed her long hair aside and cleared her throat. “Are you here to buy something or are you just checking on me?”

“Just checking,” he replied, his eyes going to her round belly. “You are huge. Are you bigger than Bulstrode yet?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. Millie was the only female friend she still acknowledged, and even though she could barely stand her at times, she didn’t particularly care for Blaise’s cruel words towards her. “I think I’m way bigger than Millie,” she replied, tapping her fingers on her stomach. “Are you here to say anything else apart from commenting on my weight, Blaise?” she added sharply.

He raised his hands near his head and gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry,” he replied seriously, “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “It takes much more than that to offend me,” she let him know evenly. “So, are you and Millie officially together now?”

He snorted. “She wishes,” he laughed derisively.

Pansy cocked her head. “If only you weren’t so scared of being killed by your wife…” she chimed, smirking.

“You know me so well, Pansy,” he replied with sarcasm. “But I wouldn’t be with her even if she was the last girl on Earth, and I desperately wanted to tie the knot.”

Pansy shook her head. “She isn’t that bad,” she told him. “And, as I said, I’m sure she would never poison your soup to inherit your money.” If she managed to be a matchmaker between them two, she would have made sure that Millie knew her efforts and thus her friend would be forever in her debt.

“Yes,” he agreed, and she was glad, “but I couldn’t bear to wake up next to someone who looks like her every day of my life.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “You are so superficial,” she sighed.

Blaise seemed to find her comment unacceptable. “You used to be too,” he reminded her slowly, “what happened to you?”

She lowered her eyes. Life happened. But he didn’t need to know that. She didn’t like to talk about her private life, not even to her acquaintances or friends. And she didn’t really have any life lesson to give to Blaise. He was rich and he would never have to go through all the things that she had. He could choose to marry whoever he wanted, or he could choose not to marry at all. He would always have money and a house and wouldn’t need to work a day in his life. He was a pureblood and most surely, he had a title that he had never shared with her. She felt a jolt of jealousy towards him.

“But I’m still quite determined not to marry,” he added, when she didn’t reply.

Pansy nodded. “Until you fall head over heels for a girl,” she pointed out. “Or you find someone who is so rich you know she won’t benefit from your death,” she added as an afterthought.

“Right,” he agreed slowly. “I haven’t found anybody richer than me, yet. And I’m quite sure I’ve never fallen for any girl at all.” He stared at Pansy seriously. “Or maybe I have,” he added slowly, stretching a hand to pull a lock of hair out of her eyes.

Pansy looked away and frowned. What was he doing? This was not the first time that he acted all flirtatious with her. Oh blimey! Did he see the ring on her finger? Or the swell of her belly?

Then, suddenly, Pansy was hit with realisation. Of course he did see all those things, of course he knew that she was not available, and that was exactly why he wanted her. He had never showed her any sign of interest until the day she got married. So, whether he fancied her on purpose or not, he knew that he couldn’t have her and that probably made him feel safe from the dangers of marriage. That was the reason why he was such a tease.

“But you know what?” he asked after a while. “Pregnancy suits you, Pansy.” He smiled at her as she raised her eyes on him.

“Does it?” she asked, smiling back.

“Yes,” he replied, “you are positively glowing.”

“Mr Zabini,” Borgin greeted him as soon as he walked into the shop, a paper bag filled with ampoules and phials in his hand. “So good to see you,” he added, stepping next to Pansy and placing a greasy hand on her shoulder. “Are you here to buy or sell?”

Pansy couldn’t help looking up at her husband. To an outsider, his tone was the same oily one he had with all customers. To her, it was different. It almost had a note of coldness at the very bottom. As if he didn’t like Blaise to be there. She snorted silently. That was an extremely stupid thing to think, since he was one of Borgin’s favourite clients. 

“Neither,” replied Blaise and Pansy felt her heart sink. Such a wrong answer, she hoped at least he didn’t add anything. “I just came to see how Mrs Borgin was doing.” And of all the things he could have said, that was probably the worst one.

“Millicent told him about the baby,” she hurried to say. “But I’m sure Mr Zabini would like to have a look at your collection of cursed paintings.” She looked meaningfully at Blaise. “He was talking about that.”

Blaise bit his bottom lip, glaring at Pansy. Clearly, he didn’t want to buy anything. “Sure,” he murmured after a while, forcing a fake smile to stretch his lips. “Mrs Borgin why don’t you show me—”

“I think my wife has to go rest, now,” Borgin cut him off icily, “you’ll understand, Mr Zabini, in her condition, it was already extremely gracious of her to stay here while I was out.”

Pansy opened her mouth to reply that she was not tired and was happy to show the paintings to Blaise, but Borgin was quicker.

“Here are the potions you asked me for, Pansy,” he growled, pushing the bag in her hands, “now, go upstairs and lie down.”

“But I’m not—”

“Go upstairs,” he barked, “and do as I say.”

That was probably the first time that he scolded her since she got pregnant. And it was definitely the first time he did it in front of a client. She tightened her fingers on the bag and lowered her eyes. Humiliated and flushed with anger, she didn’t even look at Blaise as she muttered her goodbye. She stood from the stool and walked into the back of the shop. She could hear the two men discussing frames and paintings as she walked past the mice cage, until their voices faded away and she climbed up the stairs in silence.

***

Draco stared at the first page of the Daily Prophet. Potter and Weasley had just been promoted respectively Head Auror and Deputy Head Auror. Did that really deserve the first page of the most respectable newspaper in Magical England? The two men were smiling and waving from a picture that took almost all of the page. Draco smirked. “Good job being the sidekick again, Weasley,” he muttered, before finally turning the page to see what else was new. The prices of the cauldrons rose again, Gringotts recruited a dozen new wizards, an Auror lost his son, killed by some Knockturn Alley prostitute.

He kept turning page after page and didn’t even raise his eyes when he heard the soft pop that announced that Pansy had just Apparated in the living room.

“You are going to be mad at me,” she murmured.

Draco slowly looked up at her. She looked exhausted, and not only her voice. She was paler than usual and her eyes seemed slightly glassy. He folded the newspaper and uncrossed his legs. “Why would that be?” he asked gently.

Pansy took a deep breath. “Because I really  _can’t_  have sex with you, today,” she let him know matter-of-factly.

Draco frowned slightly. “You really  _can’t_?” he asked.

Pansy nodded. “I just feel so tired,” she replied, bringing her hands to her stomach. “And so unsexy,” she added in a mumble. “And my due date is in three days, I wouldn’t want to induce an early labour here in your flat.” She sighed again. “I’m sorry.”

Draco put the newspaper on the coffee table. He smiled gently at her. Yes, Pansy looked tired. Definitely. But she didn’t look unsexy. Not to him. Her dark locks were pulled up in an untidy hairdo, showing the perfect, milky skin of her neck. She was wearing a midnight blue, Empire style dress that reached roughly under her knees. Brown boots were covering the rest of her legs. Her belly and her generous breasts were visible under the fabric.

“And why would I be mad at you?” he asked again.

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Come on, Draco,” she replied, “because you came here for nothing.”

Draco felt his heart skip a beat. Was that what she thought of him? “Pansy,” he whispered slowly, “the only time that I come here for nothing is when you don’t come.” He stretched a hand towards her and waited for her to take it.

She smiled and took his hand, letting him guide her to the couch next to where he was sitting. She sat down slowly and he circled her shoulders with his arm, pulling her against his chest. He liked to feel that little body of hers against his own; it made him feel bigger and stronger than what he actually was, even though she was wider than him at that very moment.

She rested a hand on his chest to play with the hem of his shirt, and he placed his own fingers where he liked the most. He caressed her belly through her dress and waited for a kick or another movement. Nothing happened, but he kept his hand on her side right next to her navel.

“I can suck you if you want,” she proposed, in a voice that let Draco know that she would rather not.

Draco turned his head to kiss her forehead. “No,” he refused gently, “I’m fine with talking.”

Pansy stiffened against him. “Or silently cuddling?” she proposed.

His hand tightened around her shoulders. Just in case she wanted to move away from him. “Or talking,” he repeated. “Have you thought about names?”

She relaxed in his arms, her fingers going higher to play with his collarbone. “Yes,” she replied, excitement in her voice, “I’ve thought a few.”

“Can I hear them?”

She nodded against his chest. “First on the list, there’s Astoria…”

Draco snorted. “You are so funny,” he grumbled sarcastically. “Come on.”

She took a deep breath, as if he had asked about her most intimate secret. “I really like the name Bryony,” she let him know, finally serious.

“Bryony?” He was not sure he had ever heard the name. “It’s nice.”

“And I like Scarlett,” she added. “But I had an Aunt who was named Scarlett and she was really mean to me, so I don’t know…”

Draco tapped his fingers on her stomach. “Family names are always good,” he assured proudly, “I was named after Draco Malfoy, a great-great-great-uncle of my Grandfather who slaughtered a whole village in Scotland after two little girls of the town saw him casting a spell.”

“Really?” she asked. “Well, I was named after a flower that my mother liked.” She sighed softly, as if she was ashamed of her name. Draco liked it; he liked the way it rolled on his tongue, effortlessly, as if it were meant to be said by him. “And I also like the name Cecilia,” she added. “Yes, it comes down to these three names.”

“And if it’s a boy?” asked Draco slowly.

Pansy sighed. “He wants to name it after himself,” she told him, and there was some bitterness in her voice. “Erebus.”

Draco frowned. He didn’t know Borgin had a first name! Well, of course, what a stupid thing to think. Everybody had a first name, he just couldn’t remember ever hearing it. And that was another stupid thing, because he had been to their wedding and the name must have come up at some point. But he couldn’t remember much of that day, except for Pansy and how good she looked in that white dress.

“It’s not a bad name, is it?” she asked almost anxiously.

Draco smiled, his fingers resuming the caresses on her belly. “No,” he assured her, and he complimented himself for the even tone of his voice as he lied. Of course, it was just a syllable, but still, she kept saying that he was not a good liar, and he just wanted to show her.

“Liar,” she accused him, unexpectedly. “But I don’t care. It’s just a name. I just want to hold my baby in my arms, that’s all.” She withdrew a little and looked up at him, her eyes huge on her face. “Is it really that good?” she asked him softly.

Draco couldn’t help smiling and he lowered to kiss her softly on her lips. She kissed him back. “It is,” he promised her and he thought about Scorpius and how much he had grown in the past few weeks. He was almost seven months old now, and he crawled around, smiled at his father and picked up his favourite toys when he wanted them. Draco spent all his time with him, gaining scold after scold from his mother and cold signs of disapproval from his father, even though Draco himself had found Lucius perched on the cot to look at the sleeping baby one night.

“I’m going to miss you when I won’t be able to come,” she murmured, snapping him out of his Scorpius-filled thoughts.

Draco blinked blankly. “You won’t be able to come?” he asked dumbly. She had said something about that a few months before, but he didn’t really stop to think about it.

“When I have the baby,” she replied matter-of-factly, “I don’t think I will be able to see you for a while.”

He knew that she was right. Astoria spent most of her time with Scorpius too, much more time than Draco. Pansy would have had to feed her child, change it – she had no house-elves that he knew of – bathe it, take care of it in general. Suddenly, the realisation that that might have the last time he was going to see her for a while hit him. Hit him hard.

“Well,” he started, his voice tight with emotion, “you can take the baby out for a stroll and I can meet you in Knockturn Alley.” He was grasping her shoulder now, as if he was afraid that she would slip through his fingers and disappear forever. “Or I could come to the shop to tell Borgin that I want to see his child to pay my homage.”

Pansy took her time to reply. “Yes,” she finally conceded, “you could. But I’m afraid I won’t be able to come here.” 

Draco’s hand slid up from her belly to her shoulder, pulling her in a tight embrace. “I don’t care,” he murmured against the shell of her ear, “I just want to see you.” And somehow he wanted to see the child too, but felt like she didn’t need to know that.

Pansy let him cradle her in his arms, but she kept silent. Probably, being the more practical of the two, she was already thinking of ten reasons why she wouldn’t be able to meet him. He didn’t want to think about that, confident that little would change in their lives even after the baby was born, and that before they could even notice, everything would be back to what it used to be. They would meet there once a week and revel in each other’s arms as they were doing now.

Finally, Pansy pushed her white fingers on his chest and tried to withdraw from him. Draco only tightened his arms around her. She chuckled. “I think I have to go,” she murmured against his neck.

Draco let out a groan. “You only just arrived,” he pointed out, feeling like a child who was told to get ready to leave a playground.

“I know,” she replied, and her voice held a sadness that he hadn’t noticed before. “But Borgin didn’t want me to go out in the first place, today.” She sighed. “I had to tell him that I needed some baby stuff, but I promised I would go home earlier than usual.”

“Merlin,” he growled, “you are not his property.”

Pansy stiffened and when she pushed at his chest, she managed to withdraw from him. She looked up and he saw that her eyes were burning bright with annoyance. “No, I’m not,” she replied coldly, “but he is my husband and I’m about to have a baby anyway, so I think I’ll go home.”

She tried to stand from the couch, but her belly made the simple task ten times more difficult. Draco took advantage of the situation to grab her upper arm and pull her into a heated kiss. He hadn’t said anything bad, had he? Her sudden mood change was because of her hormones, right? He thought so, and forgave her cold words. She was kissing him back, anyway, so maybe she didn’t mean her tone.

When he relented his attack on her mouth he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers, his hands cupping her cheeks and her neck as he did. He felt something rising in his chest and a wild desire to tell her something. “Pansy, I—”

“Shh,” she murmured, placing a finger on his lips, before replacing it with her own mouth. “Save it.”

***

Pansy’s first contraction didn’t hit her too hard. For a moment she didn’t even understand what was happening, and when the subtle pain subsided, she leaned back again against the couch, resuming her reading of  _Enchantment in Baking_. She managed to go through five more recipes before she felt another one. This time, the pain was definitely stronger and she let the book fall on the floor. She whimpered through gritted teeth as she brought her hands to her round belly. She scrunched her eyes up and started to breathe shallow and constant breaths like Mr Burke had told her to do.

As the contraction passed, she wondered if it was it. Was that the moment she had longed for ever since she had found out about the baby? Was she going to hug her little bundle of joy before the sun rose the following day?

She pushed her hands on the couch and stood up, the movement making her realise how stiff the contractions left the lower half of her body. She walked towards the kitchen where she kept the timer she used to cook with and decided to time her next one. She sat down on a chair and waited. She tapped the timer with her wand when the third one made her muscles contract in her stomach. With every new contraction she couldn’t help noticing the increasing pain and felt a surge of panic at what was awaiting her.

For the first time in her life, she was happy to hear Borgin open the door of their flat and walk into the house. He entered into the kitchen but he stopped when she looked at him. Her eyes wide and filled with excitement, anticipation and nervousness.

“What?” he asked briskly.

She gave him a small, tensed smile. “I’m having contractions,” she told him in a bare whisper.

She stared at him as his face lit up with anticipation. “Oh, wonderful!” he exclaimed. “I’ll call Burke.” He walked to chimney and knelt in front of it, putting his head in the fireplace. He threw some Floo Powder all over himself and she heard him talking excitedly for a few brief minutes before withdrawing.

He hurried towards her. “Let’s go,” he drawled almost sweetly, “I’ll put you to bed.”

Pansy stood up when she felt his greasy hands grabbing her arms and waist. “No,” she retorted, “I have to pack for St Mungo’s.”

Borgin didn’t even look at her. “Oh, no, no, no,” he growled, shaking his head to stress his words, “you are delivering here.”

Pansy’s eyes darted to her husband. Deliver at home? With the help of an apothecary? That was not what he had promised her. She had let him do whatever he wanted during her pregnancy, without once having been visited by someone who had a qualification, but she had made him swear to her that she would deliver in the hospital. That was the promise she had managed to extract from him after Draco’s concern had made her fretful. “No!” she half-screamed. “You promised!”

He grabbed her arm more forcefully and dragged her towards the bedroom. “I changed my mind,” he growled. “Now, wear something comfortable and lie down.”

Pansy glared at him. She wondered if she could Apparate to St Mungo’s. She didn’t care if he didn’t want her to, she would deal with him later. What she wanted was a safe delivery for her child, and at that moment nothing else mattered. But probably Apparition was not safe at that moment. She sat on the bed and crossed her arms, an annoyed expression on her face. “I want to go to St Mungo’s,” she hissed.

Borgin scowled her as if she was a misbehaving child. “I promise that you’ll be absolutely fine here,” he told her in a growl. “Mr Burke has helped deliver many a child here in Knockturn Alley.”

Horror-struck, Pansy knew that she couldn’t win. She would never manage to get to St Mungo’s by herself, not with magic nor without, and it wouldn’t be wise to hex Borgin at that very moment. If she had to stay there, she would need all the help he could give her.

A red light lit the room. Pansy turned towards the window to look at some flying sparkles that looked like fireworks, flying from the street. They clearly announced Mr Burke’s arrival and Pansy wondered why he hadn’t knocked on the door downstairs.

“See?” asked Borgin hurriedly. “Mr Burke is here, and everything will be just fine.” He walked out of the room and Pansy heard him opening the door of the flat and climbing down the stairs.

She bit her bottom lip, anger boiling inside of her. He was a weird man, she knew that, but she had hoped that the safety of the heir he had waited for so long would have made him act like a normal human being for once. She was mistaken.

“Here, Burke,” she heard Borgin say, “she’s in the bedroom.”

Pansy’s eyes raised on Mr Burke as he entered the room and she felt a small, shy smile creeping on her lips. “I want to go to St Mungo’s,” she announced hopefully.

Mr Burke stopped in his tracks to stare at her with a confused expression. “You do?” he asked unsure. He turned to look at Borgin and Pansy saw her husband shaking his head firmly.

“She does,” he growled, “but we are not to go.” He walked to the bed where she was sitting and sat next to her. “You’ll be fine here,” he assured her in the oily tone that he used when he needed to convince a client to buy something. “Tell her, Burke,” he added, looking up at his friend.

Mr Burke took a deep breath and stepped towards her, stopping only a few feet from the bed. “I’ve helped a lot of witches to bring babies into this world,” he coaxed her soothingly, “you can rest assured that I will take good care of you.”

Pansy bit her bottom lip as she tried to plead with her eyes towards the only man that she thought would have helped.

Mr Burke’s lips stretched in a gentle smile. “You had a healthy pregnancy, Pansy,” he reminded her quietly, “I’m sure you’ll have a smooth delivery.” He took a deep breath. “And if something goes wrong, I’ll take you to St Mungo’s myself. I promise.”

Pansy didn’t turn to look at Borgin when he growled his disappointment at this last statement. She nodded stiffly. Mr Burke had promised, and he was not a heartless man like her husband.

“Good,” added Mr Burke sweetly, “now, are you having contractions yet?”  

Pansy nodded. “I had three already,” she replied.

“How far apart were they?”

She looked at him sheepishly. "I haven't timed them," she replied, slightly ashamed to have forgotten to do what Mr Burke had recommended her so many times during his visits. “I was—” But her words died in her throat as she felt another one coming. She brought her hands to her belly and gritted her teeth, scrunching up her eyes to go through the pain.

“Breathe,” Mr Burke reminded her, patting her shoulder gently.

She nodded and let out a few shallow pants of air.

The pain was even more intense than the first three times and this definitely lasted longer.

When it finally passed, she opened her eyes and saw that Mr Burke was standing right in front of her. “Did your water break yet?” he asked.

She shook her head, still a bit too flustered from the pain to speak.

“Then, I believe there’s still time,” he told her quietly. “Do you remember what I told you about the delivery, Pansy?”

“That it might even take a day from the first contraction to the actual birth?” she asked tentatively. She hoped it wouldn’t take that long.

He nodded. “Hopefully, you will be able to deliver by morning,” he assured her gently. “But why don’t you take a shower or whatever makes you feel good and then lie down for a bit?” He smiled softly. “We won’t be able to do much until your contractions are about five minutes apart, and that may take a while.”

Pansy felt a small smile stretch her lips. It reassured her to hear Mr Burke speaking like that. He actually knew what he was talking about and knew what he was doing. She didn’t really know if she wanted to take a shower, and the only thing that would have made her happy at that moment was to have the baby in her arms already. She closed her eyes and imagined herself lying on that same bed with the small bundle of joy in her arms. A swarm of butterflies started to flutter their wings in her stomach at the very thought.

“And what do we do while she relaxes?” asked Borgin with annoyance in his voice. Pansy opened her eyes to glare at him. He didn’t even have to do anything at all, just wait for her to push out his heir, and he even had the audacity of complaining. She just wanted to slap him really hard, until he understood how awful he was.

“I haven’t had dinner yet,” Mr Burke told him matter-of-factly.

“Me neither,” agreed Borgin. He looked at Pansy and then back at Mr Burke. “I don’t suppose she’ll be able to cook us something,” he asked slowly.

Pansy was relieved to see that Mr Burke was glaring at him too. “No,” he replied through gritted teeth. “But you can bring her something. What would you like, Pansy?” he asked her.

“To eat?” she asked surprised. Was she allowed to eat during labour?

He nodded. “Some bread maybe?” he wondered. “Something light anyway.”

“I’m not hungry,” she replied truthfully. Food was the last thing on her mind at that moment. “I think I’ll take a shower and change into something more comfortable.”

Mr Burke nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, “if you have an old, big nightgown that you don’t mind getting ruined, you should wear it.”

She nodded. She would definitely find something amongst her old clothes. She looked up at Mr Burke. “Shall I go, now?” she asked.

He shook his head. “I’m still timing your contractions.” He nodded towards a set of numbers that were floating in mid-air, as if someone had written them with fire. She hadn’t even noticed them. Twenty minutes had already passed since her last contraction and she just hoped that the next one came soon and lasted little. It didn’t. The next contraction arrived over half an hour after the other and seemed to last longer than the others. She was surprised and slightly crestfallen to discover that in reality it lasted only twenty seconds.

“Very well,” Mr Burke stated. He looked at Borgin and straightened his back. “I have a craving for curry,” he added seriously, “do you mind?”

Borgin rolled his eyes dramatically and stood up from the bed, muttering something. He walked past Mr Burke and walked out of the room. As soon as they heard noises coming from the kitchen, the old man lowered his voice and looked at Pansy. “I’ll take good care of you, Pansy,” he reassured her, “and of your baby.”

Pansy sighed, smiling gently. “Thank you.”

He nodded and turned on his heels, disappearing out of the door and towards the kitchen and leaving Pansy alone in the room. She welcomed the silence that enveloped her, finally, giving her time to sit with her hands on her stomach and try to feel any movement the baby made. She couldn’t feel any movement at all and Pansy decided that she was too nervous to perceive them. She stood up and noticed that her legs were slightly stiff. Maybe a shower would not be such a terrible idea.

Slowly, Pansy let the dress that she was wearing fall to the floor and walked into the bathroom in her underwear. She turned on the water and sat on the edge of the bathtub. She gaped at her face in the mirror as she waited for the water to get warm. She looked tired and scared. More scared than she would have hoped. She raised her chin to her reflection; if she had managed to survive Borgin’s tortures, she was surely going to go through a delivery smoothly. “Come on, Pansy,” she encouraged herself with a whisper, “Astoria did it.”

She put two fingers under the running water and was happy to notice that the temperature was just right. She unfastened her bra and hooked her fingers into her knickers, bringing them down her legs. She had to lean against the basin for balance as she got naked, and she had never felt less sexy than that. She stepped carefully into the bathtub, pulled the curtain and welcomed the warm water on her head and shoulders. She liked the feeling of the clear liquid rolling down her skin. It was soothing and made her feel instantaneously better. She didn’t lather herself up, she knew she would be covered in sweat before the night would end. She had listened to many a tale of women delivering children, and she knew it was a messy and dirty business. She would use a Scouring Spell on herself and her child when everything was over.  _Her child_. The thought made her smile in a way that would have made her former friends laugh at her, but she couldn’t help herself. She wondered if Astoria and Daphne had smiled like her too when they thought of their child.

The water felt so good that she contemplated the possibility of sliding slowly in the bath tub and taking a proper bath, but decided against it, considering that she would have probably needed assistance to get out of the tub. She turned the water off and grabbed a towel, drying herself gently on her stomach. Even though she had only been in there for a few minutes, she already felt better, somehow reinvigorated. She looked at her wet hair and tried to look for her wand to dry it. She couldn’t find it, though, and imagined it to be somewhere on the floor of the bedroom. She opened the door to go looking for it when another contraction started to play with the muscles of her belly.

She let the towel fall on the floor and brought a hand to her stomach, massaging it softly. Her other hand went to the wall, as she tried to steady herself. She let out a loud whimper and waited for the pain to subdue. Even though she felt like it lasted for endless minutes, it was probably over in less than a few seconds. She took a few shallow pants and waited for her breathing to be back to normal.

Pansy decided that it wasn’t important if her hair was wet or not, she would find that nightgown that she was sure she had and lay on the bed, trying to rest until she had to push.

She made her way back to the room and opened the wardrobe, unceremoniously going through her clothes and Borgin’s too. She finally found an old nightgown that she hadn’t used in a long time and had wanted to throw away for a while.  _Luckily I didn’t_ , she thought, raising her arms to wear it. It caught around her belly, but she roughly pushed it down to cover herself. It reached her knees and despite being tight and slightly uncomfortable around her stomach, she didn’t look for anything else.

Pansy sat on the bed and lay down, pushing herself towards the centre of the mattress as best she could. The nightgown inched up a little on her thighs, but she couldn’t care less. She rested her damp hair on a pillow and pushed another one under her back. She tried to close her eyes and to relax.

She fell in a restless sleep, and woke up more and more often as time progressed and her contractions came at a quicker rate. Somehow she found herself on her side at some point. She dreamt about Draco and about her child. She dreamt about holding the baby and about letting it fall on the ground. She woke up and felt a cold sweat running down her back.

When Mr Burke walked into the room to check on her, it was already dark outside and Pansy couldn’t tell how much time had passed.

“Have you timed your contractions, Pansy?” he asked her gently.

She shook her head. At this point she didn’t even have an idea of how often or for how long they were lasting. “I’m sorry,” she replied sheepishly, still trying to catch her breath after her last one.

He smiled reassuringly. “That’s okay.” He sat on the bed next to her and grabbed her wrist to measure her pulse.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, surprised that a new contraction was starting so soon. She closed her eyes tightly and pushed her head forward, fisting the sheets with both hands. She let out a growl and held her breath as pain made her shake. When the soreness disappeared, she only had time to catch her breath before another contraction started to torture her.

“Four minutes,” announced Mr Burke, making the time disappear in thin air. “I think you’re close.”

Pansy gritted her teeth. “But my water didn’t break yet,” she panted, slightly nervous.

“I’ll break them,” Mr Burke told her softly. He turned to look at the door. “Borgin,” he called. “I’m afraid we’ll need you in here.”

Pansy’s heart sunk. After their quarrel, she would have rather done that alone than ask Borgin to help her, but she had to set aside her hatred towards him and focus on the delivery. Her husband trotted into the room and, Pansy had no idea why, he looked at her with annoyance. She thought he would have been over the moon, but instead he looked suspicious at her and wasn’t the least supportive of her situation.

“What will I have to do?” he asked Mr Burke flatly.

Pansy looked at the apothecary as he took off his robe and folded it neatly on a chair. He picked something from a bag that Pansy noticed only at that very moment and covered himself with a white apothecary coat. He looked back at Pansy and smiled warmly, before rolling up his sleeves and buttoning up the coat.

“You will have to do what I say throughout the delivery,” replied Mr Burke, turning to look at Borgin.

Pansy screwed up her eyes as another contraction tightened her stomach.

“Starting from when?” asked Borgin slightly annoyed.

“Starting from now,” answered Mr Burke icily. “Sit next to her and prop her up on some pillows. She needs to be comfortable.” He looked at Pansy as she gritted her teeth in pain. “As comfortable as it is possible, I’m afraid,” he added gently.

Borgin grunted something in reply and got on the bed next to Pansy, he grabbed her shoulders and pushed her up to move the pillows about. He stopped when she let out a cry of pain.

“You have to wait for her contraction to finish,” thundered Mr Burke, glaring at her husband. “And be gentle!”

Borgin laid her down and rolled his eyes as Pansy glared at him. He looked down at her and took a deep breath, then, with uncharacteristic tenderness, he brushed aside some locks of black hair from her face. “You’ll be fine,” he murmured, “everything will go smoothly.”

Pansy looked away from him, for his words sounded counterfeited to her. She looked at Mr Burke again. He was sitting on something at the foot of the bed, probably a stool or a small chair. Pansy couldn’t see and couldn’t care less. He was waving his wand towards the bed, and as he muttered something another contraction started. The pain was becoming more and more intense and now she just wished for the baby to come quickly.

Then something hit her. She waited for the muscles to unclench and finally spoke, “Can I have something for the pain?” she pleaded, unrecognising her own voice. She had never sounded feebler than now.

Mr Burke looked at her. “Is it already this intense?” he asked evenly.

Already? Was she not supposed to be in pain  _yet_? She nodded. “A potion,” she pleaded, “a spell… anything.”

Mr Burke nodded curtly. He stood up and rummaged through the bag. When he walked back to her he had two phials in his hands. He pocketed one and uncorked the other one. It smelled sweet and when he pressed it against her lips she drunk avidly from it. She felt the warm liquid making its way in her body and suddenly the overall ache from the contractions decreased. It didn’t disappear, but it was much more tolerable.

“Better?” asked Mr Burke, putting the cork back on the phial and pocketing it as well.

Pansy nodded, smiling tenderly.

He nodded back. “Borgin,” he called, “now you can prop her up on some pillows. Gently, though!” He sat back on the stool. “And push her towards the foot of the bed, I need to be able to reach for the baby without effort when the time comes.”

Pansy felt her body being pushed towards Mr Burke, her feet reaching the foot of the bed until her knees were following the curve of the mattress and her toes almost brushed the floor.

Mr Burke’s warm hands closed around her ankles and in a gentle, but firm movement he pushed her legs back up on the bed. He raised one of her feet a few inches from the mattress and she felt some sort of soft constraint close around her ankle. She raised her head a little to try to understand what was happening, but when she looked she just saw her foot hovering in midair.

“I bound your feet,” he explained, securing the other one as well. “It’ll be easier for you to focus on pushing if you don’t have to think what to do with your legs.” 

Pansy nodded. She felt Borgin gathering her in his arms and pushing some more pillows under her back, just as another contraction made her yelp. It was less intense now, probably thanks to the potion, and Pansy was able to bear the soreness with more dignity.

She felt Mr Burke’s hands on her thighs as he rolled her nightgown and pushed it around her hips and under her buttocks. Her cheeks flushed slightly as he stretched a hand and touched the lips of her vagina, tracing them and measuring how dilated she was.

“Eight centimetres,” he announced solemnly, withdrawing his hand from her. “You’re almost there.” He sat back and cleaned his hand on his white coat.

Pansy took a deep breath. Almost there. Finally. How many hours since she had had her first contraction? She couldn’t even remember. Too long. She leaned back on the pillows and braced for the next one, knowing it would come soon.

Borgin knelt next to her and crawled off the bed. Pansy was quite happy with the fact that he didn’t seem to want to hold her hand throughout the delivery. She would fist her hands in the sheets and muffle her cries in a pillow instead. She looked at him as he stepped behind Mr Burke, leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms on his chest. He looked from her face to between her legs as if he expected to see his son coming out of her any moment.

Another contraction distracted Pansy from her musing on her husband’s behaviour. Then, suddenly, she felt a pop in the lower abdomen and a gush of water poured from her onto the mattress and the floor.

“Your water just broke,” announced Mr Burke gingerly. He touched her again and when he withdrew he looked seriously at her. “It’s time to push, Pansy,” he told her firmly.

Pansy took a deep breath.

“At the next contraction, just push,” he ordered.

She looked at him, biting her bottom lip as she waited for the contraction to build up inside of her. It arrived quickly and when it did she raised her head from the pillows and just pushed. It was painful and it was tiring. And Pansy was already tired and in pain.

“Push,” repeated Mr Burke, “push.”

“I am pushing!” half-cried Pansy, bringing her hands to her stomach. She felt the contraction pass.

“Okay, lean back,” smiled Mr Burke. “Good. Take some deep breaths. Deep and slow, Pansy.”

“It hurts,” she complained softly.

Mr Burke smiled at her. “I know,” he soothed gently, “but you’ve been very good so far, you can’t stop now.”

“No,” she murmured, “I—Argh!”

“Push!”

She pushed, gritting her teeth and growling softly as she did. The pain was unbearable once again. At that moment, Pansy hated her husband even more for impregnating her, she hated Mr Burke for not giving her a strong enough potion, and she hated Draco for not being there. She pushed and felt like she was pushing her organs out of her body.

“Enough,” announced Mr Burke. “Lean back. Relax. Get ready to push again.”

Pansy took a deep breath and relaxed.

“Next time we’ll get the head out,” assured Mr Burke.

Pansy looked at him through unfocused eyes, a jolt of excitement going through her heart at his words. She was almost there. She would hold her baby soon. So soon, now, she couldn’t wait. That gave her the will to push again when the contraction started.

“Good, Pansy,” Mr Burke encouraged her, “push.”

She felt him getting closer to her and was vaguely aware of his hands near her vagina as she kept pushing. A thick drop of sweat rolled down from her hairline and she felt it tickle her temple.

“I see the head,” exclaimed Mr Burke and Pansy was excited to detect a hint of enthusiasm in his voice. “Push!”

Pansy gritted her teeth and pushed again. She was hot and sweaty now, and her legs hurt her. She almost couldn’t feel anything between her legs, the pain hiding the feeling of the baby coming out of her.

“The head is out,” murmured Mr Burke.

Pansy’s eyes opened wide at his tone. Suddenly he sounded cold and detached, and his whole face was deadly serious as he looked at the head of the baby.

“Is the baby okay?” asked Pansy nervously as she leaned back.

Mr Burke looked up at her with an unreadable expression upon his face. “Yes,” he replied stiffly, “next time you push, we’ll get it out.”

Pansy nodded. She grabbed behind her knees and prepared to push again. One last time. She gritted her teeth and groaned at the back of her throat as she pushed. But to her relief, she noticed that the pain was forgotten as she felt the baby being eased out of her by Mr Burke’s hands.

Her lips parted as she took a great gulp of air and her head fell back on the pillows. She closed her eyes and a tired smile appeared on her face. It was over. The pain was over and now she couldn’t wait to have the baby in her arms. To hold it.

She opened her eyes wide when she heard it crying, she looked down between her legs and saw Mr Burke fumbling with the umbilical cord.

“It’s a boy,” announced Mr Burke coldly, raising the baby as he turned to look at Borgin.

When she saw her son, Pansy’s breath caught in her throat.

On the small, pear-shaped head of the baby there was a wisp of blond hair.

She felt her heart beating furiously in her chest as she understood.

 _She hadn’t had Borgin’s child_.

She leaned back and stared with a smile upon her face as Mr Burke wrapped the baby in a blanket and gave him to her husband.

Had Pansy not just gone through a delivery she would have noticed Borgin’s cold face as he looked at his heir. Had Pansy not being so focused on her son, she would have sensed that something was wrong. But all Pansy wanted at that moment was to hold the baby.  _Draco_ ’s baby.

“I want to hold him,” she demanded weakly, pushing herself up on the pillows and stretching her hands towards Borgin with a soft smile.

Instead of giving her the baby, though, Borgin looked at her with a look that would have made any person freeze in terror. He turned away from her and walked towards the door with the crying baby still tight in his arms.

“It’s a boy, Borgin,” called Mr Burke in an almost pleading way.

Borgin turned to look at Pansy, who was staring at him without understanding, her arms still stretched in front of her, and then at Mr Burke. “It’s not  _my_  boy,” he replied icily, turning away and walking out of the room.

And suddenly, Pansy understood.

Her smile faded away as her eyes filled with fear and her mouth opened in horror. “No,” she cried, “no! Borgin, no!” She tried to move from the bed, but found that her feet were still bound. “No,” she rasped, something warm tracing down her cheeks, “it’s my son! Borgin! It’s my son!” She thrashed, trying to get free and run after him. Trying to get to her son. “No! Please!”

She felt her heart stop when a faint, green light lit the hallway and the baby stopped crying all of a sudden. Her lips were parted but she couldn’t speak, nor could she manage to breathe. Her whole body seemed to be made of concrete as she stared at the doorway.

She sensed a weight on the bed and felt something being pushed in her mouth. She tried to get away, but Mr Burke held her firmly as he poured the whole potion in her mouth. She coughed and sputtered.

“Shh,” he quietened her, grabbing Pansy’s shoulders, pulling her in his arms and stopping her from struggling any further. “Shh, this will make you sleep,” he whispered. “You silly, silly girl,” he added sadly, “he can’t have children.”

Pansy felt her eyelids become heavy with sleep. She was vaguely aware of Mr Burke releasing her and of Borgin sitting next to her on the bed. She tried to stretch her hand to slap him, to claw his eyes out, to strangle him, but all she could manage was to wave it pathetically in the air.

She felt Borgin lowering over her. “Shh,” he coaxed gently, “next time you’ll do better.”

Pansy closed her eyes. She couldn’t bear to be awake. She tried to open her mouth to tell him something. To call for her child. She wanted to see him. She wanted to hold him. She wanted to die too. She wanted to kill Borgin and Burke.

And as she fell asleep and tears started to spill from the corner of her eyes, Pansy realised something. She had always known how to cry, she just had never wanted to before.

***

Draco sat on the floor in front of Scorpius. The child seemed ecstatic to see his father sitting to play with him. He opened his eyes wide and gave him a toothless smile as he rotated his small arms around.

Draco picked up a small Quidditch player figurine and put it in front of his son. The figurine started to float around Scorpius’ head and Draco looked with a smile upon his face as he tried to grab it.

“You like that, Scorpius?” he asked, smiling to him. “You like the Quidditch player?”

Scorpius let out a cry of happiness and Draco couldn’t help stretching his arms to gather the blond child in his arms. He brought a forearm under his legs and with the other hand he pointed to the flying figurine. “Isn’t it fun?” he asked, laughing.

The boy shook with contentment and he banged his delicate head against Draco’s cheek, enticing some more laughter from his father.

“Aren’t you a good boy?” he murmured, sweetly. “Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”

Scorpius laughed at him and Draco felt his heart swell. He couldn’t even start to describe the love he felt for his son. It was nothing like the feelings he felt for any other person. It made him happy. Oh, so very happy.

And he wished Pansy to be as happy as he was with her child.


	9. A Good Day to Die

***

When Pansy woke, it took her a while to understand where she was. The room she was lying in was dark, the windows had been obscured, and nothing could have told her if it was night or day. She stretched her limbs and discovered that her legs were still in pain. She automatically brought her hands to massage the strained muscles of her thighs, but stopped dead when her fingers brushed over her stomach.

 _There was no baby there_.

Suddenly, the memory of what had happened flooded back to her mind with the force of a river, and she was left breathless.

 _Borgin had killed her son_.

He hadn’t even let her hug him. He hadn’t even let her cradle him in her arms. Her son. Her and Draco’s son.

She felt a hole where her heart used to be. As if someone had pushed his hand in her chest and carved that organ out. She felt hollow and tired, hopeless and without the desire to live or die. She just wanted to curl herself up in a ball and cry herself to sleep. Again and again. Until her eyes were dry and her mind was blank. Void of all thoughts and memories of that dreadful night.

She stared at the ceiling and, as her eyes got used to the darkness, she recognised it to be in the room where she had slept when she first arrived, the room that she had transformed into a nursery.

Borgin’s cruelty had no end.

There was a cot on the other side of the room and a basket full of brand new toys that nobody would ever use next to it. She remembered that she had used her wand to paint the walls white and the furniture was a soothing light yellow. She had chosen that shade because it was warm and because she didn’t know if her child was going to be a boy or a girl. Of all the rooms where he could have locked her in, he had to lay her down in the nursery, where everything reminded her of her son.

She rolled on her side, bringing her legs up towards her chest. Her head sank into the pillow that she was grabbing forcefully. She felt some more tears roll down her cheeks. She was so full of hatred at that moment that she felt like her skin could boil from the inside out if she thought about her husband any longer.

She closed her eyes and waited for the bliss of unconsciousness.

***

Draco paced the flat nervously. He was furious with Pansy. She hadn’t written to him and she hadn’t come, and now he had spent the whole afternoon pointlessly waiting for her. As if he didn’t have anything better to do. As if he couldn’t have spent his time with his son.

He had always –  _always_  – let her know when he wouldn’t have been able to come, and that had only happened twice. He should have never written to her, back then. He should have let her go to the flat and let her bang her tiny body against the anti-Apparition ward.

Draco stopped in his tracks. Pansy as well had always written to him to let him know when she couldn’t come.  _Always_. He had never come and waited for her like this.

He stepped towards the couch and slumped on it. Fear that something might have happened to her insinuated in his mind.  _She always writes, she always writes_ , he repeated in his mind.

He almost slapped himself for his stupidity. Pansy’s due date was that week. Maybe she was a mother already. Maybe she was already cradling her son in her arms at that moment. Inexplicably, Draco felt his excitement grow in his heart.

“But she should have written to me to let me know,” he growled quietly to himself.

But maybe she was in labour at that very moment. Maybe she was having her baby right then. He smiled involuntarily. If she were, he was happy for her, even if she wasn’t having his child.

He stood up and gathered his jacket. She wasn’t coming, that was sure, and even if he was still a bit disappointed, his anger dissipated slowly and he was ready to go home. He smiled at the thought of being home in time to see Scorpius eat and to hold him before he was put to bed.

He would see Pansy the following week. Or she would surely write to him. And if she didn’t, he would go to the shop to see her and Borgin’s child.

Yes, he would.

***

Pansy didn’t know how long she had been lying there. Minutes. Hours. Maybe days. She didn’t remember eating nor drinking, but felt as if her stomach was still in knots and at the very notion of food. She was sure she could manage to throw something up.

She had tried to look for her wand in the nursery, but it was nowhere to be found. She felt powerless without it, just like any other witch or wizard would feel. She didn’t even have to wonder if Borgin had taken it away from her on purpose, because she knew he had. And that was probably the only intelligent thing he had ever done in his whole life. Had she had her wand now, he would have already been dead. And Burke would have been second in line. She would have been on the first page of every newspaper and she would have earned herself a one-way ticket to Azkaban, but at that very moment Azkaban sounded almost like a holiday, and all she cared about was her revenge.

She licked her dry lips, trying unsuccessfully to wet them. She felt dehydrated, but despite it she couldn’t contain the tears that were still rolling down her cheeks.

***

When Draco stormed into the nursery, Astoria raised her eyes from the book she was reading to look at him. An expectant expression on her face, she seemed to be almost unable to contain a smile.

“How was London?” she asked, probably meaning to sound even when she actually could barely hide a gleefulness that didn’t quite make sense to Draco.

He looked at her darkly. “Eventless,” he growled, walking towards the blanket on the floor where Scorpius was playing with Quidditch figurines flying around his head. He sat next to his son, his legs crossed. “Hey, Scorpius,” he called him, his voice lighter. “How are you, big boy?” The boy didn’t even look at him.

He felt Astoria’s eyes on him and raised his head to look at her. She was wearing a soft smile upon her lips. “Eventless?” she asked, her voice heavy with pleasure.

Draco looked at her with a hard expression. Yes. Astoria knew about Pansy. And Draco suspected that she knew that his appointments with Mr Bolden had finished a long time before. But still, she seemed pleased even before he had replied to her question. His father was right, women were mysteries and they were dangerous.

“Yes,” he replied coldly. Pansy had not come. For the second week in a row. She had not written to him to let him know if she had had the baby or not. She hadn’t sent him a single word since the last time they met. If he had forgiven her for making him wait for her once, he surely couldn’t forgive her twice. Did she forget that he was a  _Malfoy_? She was lucky if he hadn’t already…

He shook his head. What could he have done to her? Nothing. That was the truth. But she had to consider herself lucky that he had gone back to wait for her another time. That was not what Malfoys did.

“Well,” chirped Astoria, smiling, “I’m glad you’re home, then.”

Draco nodded curtly before returning his attention to his son. Scorpius seemed to like those flying Quidditch players a lot, and Draco was glad. He would make his way into the Slytherin Quidditch team as soon as he was old enough, and if he didn’t, a little push from Draco in the shape of new equipment for the team wouldn’t hurt anybody. He knew it well.

“You like them, Scorpius?” he asked gently, waving his hand and trying to capture a figurine.

Scorpius let out a trilling laughter.

Draco smiled. “Shall I take one?” he asked again. “Shall I grab one for you?” His hand missed one on purpose. “Oh! Almost!” he laughed.

Scorpius looked at his father’s hand with his big, grey eyes. He seemed to enjoy this immensely, and as Draco moved his fingers he followed them with interest.

“Should I take one, Scorpius? Should I?” he asked and his son opened his mouth to breathe quickly in excitement.

Draco smiled and stretched his hand to snatch a zooming red-haired figurine from above Scorpius head. If possible, his son’s eyes became even wider as he stretched his small hands towards his father to claim the toy. Draco smiled and glanced distractedly at the figurine before lowering his hand to Scorpius.

He stopped before his son could grab it, though, and brought the hand up again, causing Scorpius’ face to contort in a disappointed expression that threatened to change into an uncontrollable wail.

“Draco,” Astoria called him sternly, “don’t be mean.”

Draco looked at her and then at his son. “What?” he asked softly. “Oh, no, no,” he added, scooping up Scorpius in his arms. “Daddy is not mean, is he? He is just…” He brought the figurine in front of his eyes and stared at it. “Why is my son playing with a figurine of Ginny Potter dressed in a Holyhead Harpies uniform?” he asked heatedly.

Astoria shrugged a shoulder. “Because Ginny Potter plays in the Holyhead Harpies?” she asked back nonchalantly.

“And do you think it’s appropriate?” he hissed. “Harry Potter’s wife…”

Astoria waved a hand to dismiss his worries. “Your aunt sent that present to us when Scorpius was born,” she let him know.

“My aunt?” asked Draco, unsure about who she was talking about.

Astoria nodded. “Andromeda Tonks,” she explained, “the one who married a Mudblood.” There was disdain in her voice and she didn’t even try to hide it.

Draco gritted his teeth. “I know who she is, thank you very much,” he hissed. He imagined that his aunt had been extremely amused at the thought of sending them a toy that resembled Harry Potter’s wife.

“If you think it inappropriate, you can always take it away from him.” She looked at him with a defiant glare. “But that red-haired figurine is his favourite.”

Draco looked down at Scorpius, who was still trying reach the toy. He sighed and gave it to him, but looked in horror as his son tried to suck one of the small feet.

“No! No!” protested Draco, taking the figurine back. “At least don’t suck it!”

Scorpius started to cry in earnest. His high pitched sobs made Draco roll his eyes. “Here, here,” he hurried to say, giving the toy back to him for the second time. “But this is not to be your favourite toy, understand?” He looked at Scorpius as the child smiled in contentment for having his fingers around the model once again. When Scorpius let it go he screamed in happiness as the figurine started to zoom around his head again.

Draco sighed and shook his head. Next time someone sent a toy for his son he wanted to see it first.

***

When the door of the nursery opened and a dim light filtered through the doorway, Pansy turned her eyes to look at the person standing there. Despite his face being in the dark, because he stood with the light at his shoulders, she would have recognised the contour of that figure and that disgusting smell from a thousand miles away.

Pansy pushed her hands on the mattress to rise and discovered being extremely weak. Her legs hurt her, her arms were numb, and her muscles were still in pain. She sat up slowly, finally managed to stand up, and took some unsteady steps towards him. She knew that she was advancing so slowly that he could have easily stepped back and closed the door in her face at any time, but he didn’t. He waited for her without doing so much as breathing.

She stopped a few inches in front of him, her eyes finally getting used to the light that came from the hallway. She looked at him with her eyes dark with anger and hatred and, without even knowing what she was doing, she threw herself at him.

Her bony fingers clutched with all their force at the base of his neck. She gritted her teeth as she tried to crush his windpipe under her hands. She pushed with all her force, letting out a guttural sound for the effort.

It was only when two big, greasy hands closed around her tiny wrists and she was pushed back effortlessly that she noticed how pointless her attempt was. She landed on her side, a blinding pain going through her bones as her hip crashed against the floor. She hid her face in the crook of her arm and felt tears of anger threatening to roll down her cheeks again. Ever since she had cried the night of her delivery, she couldn’t find a way to stop.

“You are too weak,” sentenced Borgin from the doorway. “What would you like to eat?”

Pansy didn’t even look at him. She pushed her face in her arm and curled her body at his feet. She let out a loud sob and started to cry, ashamed and at the same time without being able to help herself. She wanted to see Borgin dead, she wanted to look at him as life left his body more than anything else. In her position, though, she knew she couldn’t cause him even the smallest damage.

“What would you like to eat?” he repeated, his tone impatient.

“Go away,” murmured Pansy against the skin of her arm.

“What?” he asked, taking a step towards her.

“Go away!” she repeated more forcefully, raising her head a little to look at him.

He glared at her, but complied. Without giving her his back, he walked out and, once in the hallway, closed the door of the nursery. Pansy heard the lock catch and the room turned dark once again.

***

“ _Diffindo_!” roared Draco, pointing his wand towards the cushions on the couch. They were shredded to pieces, spurting goose feathers on the couch and floor. “ _Expulso_!” he cried at the coffee table, exploding it.

He took a series of shallow breaths and looked around at the flat that lay in tatters before his eyes. For the third time, Pansy hadn’t come. For the third time, he had waited for her like an idiot. He didn’t even know why he had gone to London that day, only that deep down in his heart there still was a vague hope that she would have come.

But no. She didn’t. And he felt like she was making a fool out of him on purpose.

Or maybe not. Maybe she was mad at him for some reason that Draco could not understand. Women tended to do that. Pregnant women even more. But Pansy couldn’t possibly still be pregnant. She had to have had her child. And she should have told him about it. Draco felt betrayed and hurt. He felt like he didn’t count anything to her.

He pocketed his wand and looked around the living room with disdain. He would leave everything exactly like that, so the first time she was back in the flat, he would show her just how angry he had been.

***

“You have to eat something,” ordered Borgin with annoyance in his voice.

Pansy raised her head from beneath her arms and looked at him from the corner where she was sitting. Her big, dark eyes could barely focus on his ugly face. “I don’t want anything,” she whispered weakly.

“If you don’t eat, you’ll die,” he replied heatedly.

Pansy looked away. “Let me die,” she murmured. “What do you even care?”

Borgin shifted nervously on the bed where he was sitting. “You still owe me an heir,” he reminded her coldly.

Pansy’s head jerked towards him as she hissed, “You can’t have children.” She gritted her teeth, a new wave of anger rippling through her body.

Borgin darkened. “That’s what Burke told you, isn’t it?” he barked. “Just because I’ve had three wives and never managed to get them pregnant, it doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with me.” He fidgeted with his hands in his lap. “There might be something wrong with you.”

Pansy lowered her head again. She wanted to tell him that, evidently, there was nothing wrong with her. She wanted to tell him that he was as sterile as a desert. She wanted to see his face when he realised that he would  never have any heir, that his name would die with him. But more than anything, Pansy wanted him to stop talking and leave her alone.

“You need to eat,” he repeated.

Pansy took a deep breath. “How long have I been in this room?” she asked feebly.

“Almost three weeks,” he replied curtly. “It’s time to recover.”

Pansy scrunched her eyes. Recover? How dared he? Oh, the thought of closing her nimble fingers around his neck… And still, three weeks, she should have been dead by now. “What did you do to me?” she whispered darkly.

Borgin straightened his back and raised his chin. “As I said, you still owe me an heir.” He looked grimly at her. “I fed you a Girding Potion when you were asleep.”

Pansy raised her eyes to look at the ceiling, but when she felt her tears threatening to fall once again, she lowered her eyelids to try to trap them. “After all you did to me,” she murmured, her voice full of despair, “you could at least let me die in peace.”

She heard him slap his thigh with his hand. “After all  _I_  did to you?” he asked venomously. “ _You_  made a fool out of me. You had someone else’s child.”

Pansy brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Yes, indeed, she had been an unfaithful wife. But somehow, the punishment that he had inflicted on her seemed disproportionate to her crime.

“I was wondering,” he growled, “who the father was.”

Pansy chewed on her bottom lip, trying hard not to scream at him. He was just playing with her, obviously, because not even he could have been that daft.

“Not Mr Zabini, obviously,” he continued, “even though he came to the shop twice to look for you since you gave birth.”

She raised her eyes to him. Blaise? Why? “Did he?” she asked weakly.

He nodded. “And that girl who was your bridesmaid at our wedding,” he added, “the ugly one. She came as well once.”

She swallowed to find her mouth dry. Draco hadn’t come? Never? “What did you tell them?” she asked in a hiss. “That I was dead?”

“I told them the truth,” he let her know, “that you had a still birth and haven’t recovered from the shock yet.”

Pansy took a deep breath. “That’s not the truth,” she hissed.

“It’s going to be, from now on,” he replied icily. “Now eat something, or I’ll tie you to a chair and force the food down your throat.”

***

From the bed, Draco stared at Astoria’s naked reflection in the mirror. Despite having had a child less than a few months before, she looked just as attractive and inviting as she did before her pregnancy. Not that Draco usually found her inviting. He couldn’t deny her attractiveness – he would have been blind, if he did –, but he still disliked her too much to find himself fantasising about her.

That night it had been almost a month since he had lain with Pansy, and ever since Scorpius was born, Astoria had not done much for him except for the occasional blow job and a quickie when he felt particularly randy. She didn’t seem to enjoy it at all, and now she was the one to pay particular attention not to give him another heir by mistake.

“What?” she asked, looking into his eyes through the mirror.

Draco licked his lips and shook his head slightly. “Nothing. I was just thinking,” he replied nonchalantly.

She stared coldly at him. “About what, I wonder?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “The fact that you’ve not been a good wife,” he replied, his voice low.

She looked unfazed by his claim. “Oh my,” she replied sharply, “I’m afraid I have to disagree, Draco.” She gave him a cruel smile. “I’ve been a better wife than many other women I know.”

Draco snorted, but ignored her remark. “I’m sure it’s written somewhere in our contract of marriage that, as a wife, you have duties that you are not obliging to.”

Astoria puckered her lips. “And what are those duties, if I may ask?” she asked icily.

“I’m talking about your duties in the bedroom.” Yes. That was the perfect excuse to have her without feeling ashamed of wanting her. He could tell himself that he didn’t in fact want her, but that he had to bed her because they were husband and wife.

“We have a child,” she replied. “I think nobody will ever find me…  _undutiful_.”

Draco shrugged a shoulder. “Show me,” he ordered boldly.

Astoria looked at him as if he had asked her to kiss a Dementor. Her face became hard and her eyes filled with disdain towards her husband. Draco ignored her. Her newfound aversion to lie with him was one of the things that excited him about her.

She turned to look at Draco, her naked body in full view. The nightgown that she was about to wear before their conversation had started lay discarded on a chair, and she brushed it with her legs as she walked towards the bed.

“Do you want me on all fours?” she asked coldly. “Or would you rather have me riding you?”

Draco smiled as cruelly as she usually did. “Why don’t you start by sucking me and then I’ll decide?”

She glared at him with murderous intent in her eyes. She hated to give him head and Draco knew it well. She found the act distasteful and deemed it worthy of a cheap prostitute. She had only agreed to do it when she was pregnant not to have his erection anywhere near her child.

To his surprise, she didn’t say anything. She knelt on the bed, her soft, brown curls bouncing around her shoulders and collarbone, and made her way towards him.

He lay down, his hands behind his head, and looked as she positioned herself between his legs. Her warm hands went to his pyjama bottoms and she pushed it down to discover his flaccid member. Draco tried to take a glimpse of the hatred in her eyes, but she didn’t look at him.

Her skilful fingers closed around the base of his shaft, massaging him gently, but firmly. She knew perfectly well how to touch him, probably not because she wanted to bring him as much pleasure as possible, but because she wanted it to be over quickly. When he started to get hard in her hand, she brought her lips to the head, engulfing it in her warm mouth. She grazed the skin with her teeth and moved her tongue against him.

Draco’s eyes got more and more unfocused as she continued, his member quickly becoming hard under her ministrations. He kept his eyes on her head as she took him deep in her throat and, without even noticing, his lips parted slightly when she started to bob her head up and down. She was good. Almost as good as Pansy. If only he had felt something for her, he would have enjoyed it immensely. Still, the sensation was so good. One hand was pumping him where her mouth couldn’t reach, her other went to touch his balls as she sucked him until her cheeks went hollow.

His chest started to rise and lower almost in time with the bobbing of her head. He brought his hands to her head and enlaced his fingers with her hair. Viciously, Draco pushed his pelvis up as he pulled her head towards the base of his erection. He felt her hand leaving the base of his length, and she brought it to his thigh to push against it. Her mouth spasmed around his member and he heard her choke as she sucked noisily to try to breathe. He released her only to look at her as she backed away from him, her face red and her eyes shiny with tears. She took a deep gulp of air and coughed.

“Get back down here,” he growled huskily.

She shot Draco a glare and coughed a little bit more, before bending over him again. She took him back in her mouth and sucked more avidly. He brought his hands back to her hair, but only to keep her in place as he thrust into her. The squishing sounds of her saliva around his erection sent him over the edge and he gritted his teeth as he felt his balls tighten and came into her mouth. He kept his fingers in her hair until he felt her swallow, only then he let her go, allowing his hands to fall at his sides.

She swallowed and licked him clean. Her red face was now back to her milky colour as she withdrew and raised her eyes on her husband. Draco held her stare as she looked at him with cold, dark eyes filled with hate for what he had done to her.

He stared into those eyes for what seemed ages, none of them moving. Finally, he sat up and grabbed her upper arm, pulling her forward, he shoved her on her stomach on the bed. She let out a cry of surprise as he did, probably thinking that her job was done for the night. He knelt behind her and grabbed her hips; raising her, he made her kneel in front of him. He brought his thumb to her rear hole and pushed against it. “I don’t think I’ve ever taken you in this tight, little hole of yours, have I?” he asked, smirking.

She whimpered as he pushed against it, one of her hands going automatically to his forearm to stop him before he could get any further inside. “No,” she hissed, “and you never will.” She shoved forcefully at him and moved away from his hands.

He stared at her round buttocks and caught a glimpse of her breasts as she crawled as far from him as possible. He brought a hand to his member, gripped it and massaged it to try to make himself hard again.

He stared at the lascivious body of his wife, and as he did, his eyes became unfocused and Draco had to squeeze them shut to clear his sight. A few seconds later, he wasn’t staring at Astoria anymore. The body in front of him was bonier and her skin paler. Her hair was straight and jet black, and he could see a round-shaped scar on her side.

“Pansy,” he breathed so softly that he himself couldn’t hear it. He shook his head furiously and when he looked in front of him again he saw Astoria looking back at him with a deadly stare.

He looked away, his eyes dark. “Get on your knees,” he grumbled, “I’m not going to take you in the arse.”

She looked at Draco as if she didn’t believe him, but when he stretched a hand to make her turn, she got back on all fours without him touching her. He was still not completely erect, but he didn’t care. He would get hard as he thrust into her. He grabbed her hips and positioned himself at her entrance. He pushed into her and was glad that she had sucked him earlier, because his wife was still completely dry. Somehow, he thought that that was an act of defiance towards him, as if to tell him that his view didn’t excite her in the slightest. He couldn’t have cared less. He would turn the cards on the table and her insolence would become her punishment.

He pushed roughly into her, and with one quick thrust he was buried into her centre to the hilt. Astoria let out a half-sob as he stretched her, she fell on her elbows and Draco saw her hair falling to cover her face. She panted hard, her ribs expanding quickly and her muscles tensing.

He stood still, revelling in her warmth. He felt his member finish filling as her walls engulfed him. He raised his eyes to the wall in front of him and took some shallow breaths. He had just come once, he could push into her long enough to torture her.

Draco felt her shifting on her elbows. He closed his eyes and clutched his fingers around the shape of her hipbones. He exited her slowly, until only the head was resting between her warm folds. Then he pushed back in, listening and delighting in her whimper of pain. Again, he inched out of her painfully slow and then pushed all the way back in. He continued like that for some long minutes, until he felt Astoria’s folds slicken with her arousal.

He finally opened his eyes and found his sight to be clouded. He didn’t care, he started to push into her more quickly, his hips slapping against her buttocks every time he thrust into his wife. He picked up a pace that became faster and faster, and as he moved his pelvis to penetrate her, he found out that her whimpers of pain had become groans of pleasure, and that she was bucking against him.

He grunted and leaned against her back, resting all his weight on her hips. He felt her tremble and her knees buckling under him. She collapsed on the mattress and he continued pumping into her, his hands now pulling at her hair as he did. He could feel her bottom pushing against his lower abdomen every time he drove in her, and her legs moving in a vain attempt to push herself back on all fours.

He brought his mouth to her shoulder and bit her skin hard, her head shot back and he could finally feel her walls clench around his length. She clutched at the sheets with her manicured fingers and muffled a cry against the pillow as she came.

With difficulty, Draco stilled and waited for her pleasure to fade. He waited until her breath came back to normal and she almost didn’t move anymore in her post-orgasmic bliss. He saw her half-closing her eyes and he gathered her hair in his hand. He pulled her head back and started to thrust into her sensitive centre once again. She moaned as if she hadn’t expected him to renew his attack. How very naïve of her! He brought his free hand to her buttock and slapped it hard until she bent her knee and arched her back. His pace became frantic then, he pushed deeper and deeper until he felt the familiar pull of his balls, and with a few quick shoves he came into her. He growled loudly, his hand tightening around her hair. His eyes rolled back in his head as he emptied himself in his wife.

She didn’t move as her body shook with quick-paced pants. He took a deep breath and collapsed on top of her, his body pressing her into the mattress. She squirmed slightly, but he brought a hand to her mouth to cut off her complaints.

He didn’t stay like that for long. As soon as he felt his member becoming flaccid again, he exited her and rolled on his back. He pulled up his pyjama bottoms as he moved to his side of the bed. He closed his eyes and waited for his breath to steady.

“Maybe we’ve just made another baby,” he chuckled, a smirk on his face.

He felt Astoria moving on the bed. “That’s quite impossible,” she replied, and Draco wasn’t surprised to hear her voice being so cold despite her recent orgasm. “I’m taking precautions.”

Draco’s eyes darted to her. He tried to look as threatening as he could, but feared that he was only coming off as shocked at the news. “What?” he hissed. He felt betrayed and angered. She should have consulted him if she wanted to take such a decision. She was his wife.  _His_  wife. She belonged to him.

“I’m on a potion,” she let him know, smiling cruelly, “I’m sure you are not unfamiliar with this anti-contraceptive method.” She looked at him meaningfully and Draco couldn’t find anything to reply with.

Astoria stood up from the bed and he looked at her as she walked to the bathroom to clean herself. The door closed at her back and Draco’s head fell back on the pillow.

She was a bitch.

Of course, he hadn’t wanted a child for so long, she probably thought it was all right to make that decision by herself. And Malfoys always had only one heir, that was the rule. But Draco loved Scorpius so much, he felt like he could have broken with tradition and have another one. He remembered what Pansy had told him, his mother had given her the anti-contraceptive potion. He wondered if his mother was involved with Astoria’s decision.

And Pansy! He was supposed to be mad at her, how could he picture her as he had sex with his wife? Truth was, he missed her. He missed her more than he was mad at her. He missed her more than he cared to admit.

He would have to visit Borgin and Burkes. He had to know why she hadn’t come.

***

“I want my wand back.” 

Borgin slurped the soup noisily and put the spoon back in his plate. He took his napkin and cleaned his lips, before raising his eyes to look at Pansy. She was sitting across the table from him, but still she felt like she was too close. Her own bowl, filled with soup, was untouched in front of her.

He took a deep breath and tilted his head to look at her. “You don’t really think I’m that stupid, now, do you?” he asked emotionlessly.

Pansy stared at him without moving. “Is that a trick question?” she asked softly.

Borgin growled. “You will respect me, girl.”

Pansy raised her chin, unfazed by his tone. “I want my wand back,” she repeated.

Borgin banged his fist on the table, his eyes were two slits. “You are never going to get your wand back,” he cried. “Forget about it!”

Pansy, like every other witch or wizard whose wand had been taken away, could not stop thinking about it. Her hand kept going to her pocket to try to find it, and every time she closed her fingers around thin air, she was reminded that she was kept powerless by the man she hated.

And as if taking her wand away from her was not enough for Borgin, the old man had warded the flat with anti-Apparition wards; he magically sealed the windows and door and shut the Floo Network. Pansy had found out all these things at her own expenses when her body painfully slumped against the floor after she had tried to Apparate into Knockturn Alley, or when she had attempted to open a window for the whole day and in the evening the skin had peeled off from her palms. Or also when she had stepped into the fireplace with some Floo Powder in her hand and all that had happened was that she had choked on the dust as she said, ‘The Leaky Cauldron’.

“I need it,” she hissed.

Borgin snorted. He stood up and collected his bowl and Pansy’s still full one. He looked grimly at her and threw the cold soup into the sink. “You don’t need it,” he hissed back. “All you need is to learn your place and produce an heir.”

Suddenly, Pansy stood up, her chair falling back on the floor. “You can’t have children,” she half-screamed, slapping the table with her palm and wincing in pain as her raw skin came into contact with the hard wood.

He flared his nostrils, his eyes staring deadly at her. “Shut up,” he growled, “shut up or I’ll make you shut up.”

She looked at him with hatred and saw that he was clutching his wand in his hand, even though it was still pointed to the floor. She looked away, and hated to admit even to herself that she was scared of him. He was a known practitioner of the Unforgivable Curses, he had bragged about it ever since she had started working at the shop. Even though Pansy didn’t think he would have used the Killing Curse on her, she couldn’t be as confident about the other two curses. At that very moment, he seemed ready to  _Crucio_  her.

He raised his wand towards her and she gulped. A faint, red light was shot next to her ear and she felt the chair being pulled to its feet and against her legs. She buckled her knees and collapsed as the chair pushed her sternum tightly against the table. “You need to eat,” he finally snarled, pushing a plate of mashed potatoes and stew in front of her.

“I’m not hungry,” she murmured, looking at the uninviting food.

“You know how little it takes me to force the food down your throat,” he reminded her with a cruel smile on his face. “I can do it while I eat.” He pointed his wand at her to stress how serious he was.

Pansy felt the tears that she had spilled so many times in a month blurring her vision again. She bit her bottom lip and grabbed the fork. The first mouthful of stew tasted funny and she felt like it stayed in her mouth forever. She chewed with difficulty on the dodgy piece of meat, and when she tried to push it down her throat, she felt as if it was too small to accommodate the bite.

Her hatred towards Borgin made her stomach churn, and she found out that she couldn’t hold anything down. The first time that he had used a spell to force the food into her, she had thrown up everything on the floor of the nursery. He had snarled at her, cleaned the mess and then finally pushed her into the shower. He had vanished the old nightgown that still retained the signs of her delivery, and turned on a boiling hot water that had made her scream as it burned her skin. He had scrubbed her clean with his own hands, taking pleasure every time she whimpered and cried out from his roughness.

“Swallow,” he ordered menacingly.

She looked into his eyes as she noisily swallowed the meat. She could feel it going down for a while, but when it started to come up again, she gritted her teeth and started to panic.

“Don’t throw up,” he hissed. As if she were able to control it.

She swallowed and swallowed again until the movements in her throat sent the food to her stomach, where it finally stayed. She took a deep breath of relief before remembering that that was only the first bite of her dinner. She regretted not having eaten the soup then, for it was a much easier task than that heavy dish.

“Good girl,” he growled as if he was talking to a dog. He nodded towards her plate. “Go on,” he added, “I want you to clean it.”

Pansy’s fingers clutched spasmodically around the fork. She wondered if she could have stabbed his neck with it, if she would have had time to do it before he cursed her.

“Go on,” he repeated more forcefully. “You need to gain some weight to be able to have another pregnancy.” His eyes caressed her body. “You’ve never been fat, but I’ve never seen you that gaunt-looking either.”

For once, Pansy agreed with the man, after having been at her heaviest during the pregnancy, she was now the shadow of herself. Her cheeks were hollow and showed her cheekbones under her pale skin, her face was all eyes, her wrists looked as if the tiniest movement could have broken them. She couldn’t sleep on her stomach, for her hips dug into the mattress and they hurt her. She had to ask Borgin to reduce her clothes in size because she didn’t fit into anything anymore.

“I asked Burke to come and visit you,” he grunted thoughtfully as he observed her chewing on the mashed potatoes. “He said he doesn’t want to see me.” Borgin shook his head and smiled bitterly at her. “The old fool. I knew that he had too many scruples for what we did.” He raised an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulder. “Oh well, we don’t need him, do we?”

Pansy didn’t reply. She focused on swallowing the food that was starting to become more and more difficult to keep down.

“I’ll give you all the potions that you need,” he continued, “and take care of you until you can bear to have children again.”

Pansy put the fork down as she felt a knot at her throat. She could feel the stew and the mashed potatoes at the back of her throat, their taste mixed with a subtle acid tang of bile.

“And when you have my child, you will have your wand back.”

Pansy turned her head and bent over as the food that she had just so dutifully swallowed made its way back into her mouth and on the floor of the kitchen. She felt her stomach convulse painfully as it compelled her to expel the stew. She brought a hand to catch her hair before she soiled it and stayed in that position until she tasted only bile in her mouth.

“Now,” he growled with annoyance, tapping his fingers on the table, “look at what you did.”

***

Draco looked inside Borgin and Burkes before actually deciding to walk in. He pushed the door of the shop with a slow gesture, but felt his heart starting to beat at a quicker pace as his eyes roamed the dimly lit place. Any second now, he expected to see Pansy. Maybe she was standing in a corner, lulling her child to sleep, or maybe she was sitting on a stool, breastfeeding it.

He just wanted to see her. He had almost completely forgotten his anger at her silence, and now that a month had passed without him being able to be in touch with her – to touch her, to talk to her, to hear her voice, to see her, to have her – he felt himself burn with the heart-wrenching desire to hold her.

Draco felt his heart sink as he stepped towards the counter. Pansy was nowhere to be found, and Borgin as well for that matter. The shop was empty, open of course, because he had managed to go in, but empty. He reckoned that if he left now he didn’t have to convince Mr Borgin that he didn’t want to buy anything – or better, that he couldn't buy anything from his shop and bring it home as evidence of where he had been –, but the thought of maybe managing to ask him to let Pansy come down from the flat made him reach the counter and clear his throat loudly.

No sound or reply reached his ears. He lowered his eyes on the counter and saw a little brass bell resting on it. He looked warily at it as if it was some sort of enchanted snare, then brought one gloved hand to the button and pushed until a loud, trilling sound filled the shop.

This time Draco heard hurried steps behind the curtain that led to the back of the shop, and soon enough Mr Borgin was making his way to the front.

Draco stared haughtily at him, as he always did when he visited the shop, but for a moment his arrogant expression faltered as he saw the death stare of the man in front of him. For the first time in his life, Mr Borgin looked at him as if he didn’t want Draco to be there.

The old man’s expression lasted only a few seconds though, and later Draco wondered if he hadn’t dreamt it all, because Mr Borgin was soon smiling slimily at him like he always did.

“Mr Malfoy,” he greeted him in his usual oily tone. “What a pleasure to see you.”

“Mr Borgin,” responded Draco, nodding curtly.

Mr Borgin brought his hands in front of his chin and tapped the fingertips together. “Are you here to buy or sell?” he asked.

Draco contemplated his options. He wasn’t there to sell for sure, because he hadn’t brought anything from the Manor with him. He didn’t want to buy anything either, but he figured that if he told him that he was there to do neither their conversation would have been over even before it had started. “To buy,” he told him, trying to sound convincing.

Mr Borgin’s smile broadened. “Ah, very well,” he drawled happily, “and do you know what you’d like to buy?”

“I need… I need something for…” Draco’s words trailed away and he mentally slapped himself. He had had a week to decide how to approach Mr Borgin, ever since he had decided to pay him a visit, but he hadn’t thought of anything at all. He had reckoned he would have seen Pansy and her child straight away, and maybe he would have pushed her in a corner of the shop and kissed her and touched her until she writhed against him. Instead he was stuck with this awful man and had to buy something.

“Yes?” Mr Borgin encouraged him, a satisfied smirk appearing briefly on his face. “What do you need, Mr Malfoy?”

“I need something for a party my wife is throwing,” he replied, remembering that Astoria had invited a small group of friends and family to a gathering at the Manor.

“I’m afraid we don’t sell party supplies,” replied Mr Borgin with a smirk. “Anything else that you might need from the shop?”

Draco cocked his head as he half-closed his eyes. Usually, Mr Borgin was the one who offered the goods to him, suggesting in an annoying way what Draco would have liked. Now, it looked as if he took pleasure in seeing him trying to make up an excuse for his presence in the shop, and his business seemed completely forgotten, as if he knew that something was wrong…

Draco pushed those thought at the back of his head, of course Mr Borgin couldn’t know that he was trying to find an excuse to stay and talk about Pansy. “I’d like to see your collection of cursed games,” he finally let him know, “I’m afraid some of the guests at my wife’s party are not exactly people I wouldn’t like to see in pain.”

Mr Borgin eyed him cautiously, as if to enquire if that was really his desire, and when Draco kept his eyes on him to silently urge him on, he finally stepped from behind the counter.

“This way, Mr Malfoy,” he murmured, nodding towards a corner of the shop.

Draco followed him until the man stopped in front of a mahogany chest with complicated carvings that depicted people dying in the cruellest ways. Mr Borgin tapped it three times, once on the head of a snake which was devouring the heart of a woman, once on the feet of a baby who had been torn in half, and once on the hand of a hooded man with a sword. The mechanism in the chest caught and it slowly swung open.

Draco peered inside. There were decks of cards, chessboards, figurines, masks and so many other games that Draco could not see the bottom of it. He raised his eyes on Mr Borgin and saw that he was wearing his protective gloves.

“Take your pick, Mr Malfoy,” he smirked, positioning the gloves carefully on each finger.

“I’d like to see the chessboard.”

Mr Borgin bent over the chest to fish out the battered chessboard that Draco had spotted. “Wonderful piece, Mr Malfoy,” he announced, dusting it with his hands.

“What does it do?” asked Draco, eyeing the game warily.

Mr Borgin placed the game on a table and took out the pieces. “Every time one of your pieces kill one of your adversary’s pieces, you also win a part of your opponent.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “A part of your opponent?” he asked.

Mr Borgin nodded excitedly. “A part of his soul, if you either take his Queen or his King,” he explained, “a part of his body for each of the other pieces.”

Draco thought about Scorpius. That was not a suitable game to have at home, and apart from that, he saw no interest in harvesting pieces of souls or pieces of people. It also looked vaguely familiar, as if he had noticed something like that amongst the artefacts that he had asked Pansy to sell. But hadn’t this been bought by Mr Burke? “No thank you,” replied Draco, “anything else?”

Mr Borgin started to put the pieces away, grunting something that Draco didn’t understand. He put the chessboard back to the chest and took out a deck of cards. “I have this enchanted deck,” he explained, “depending on what game you play, it gives the impression that you’re…”

In Draco’s head Mr Borgin’s words trailed away. There wasn’t a single thing he wanted from that shop. All he actually desired was not there. Where was she? Was she upstairs taking care of her child? Was she really that close to Draco and at the same time so unreachable?

“Mr Borgin,” Draco interrupted him, “I was wondering where that beautiful wife of yours is.” As soon as the words left his lips, Draco felt his mouth going dry. He hadn’t even thought about what he was saying. He had never called Pansy beautiful in front of Mr Borgin, and now the man was eyeing him coldly as if he had insulted him.

The old man placed the cards back into the chest and looked at Draco with a haughty expression. “Upstairs,” he replied flatly, “where she has been for over a month.”

Draco frowned. “I was given the impression that she still worked here,” he pointed out.

Mr Borgin shook his head. “Not anymore, no,” he replied, “the poor thing is still in shock.”

“In shock?” whispered Draco, without understanding. In shock from what? What had happened? He felt his heart starting to beat furiously in his chest. Was there something wrong with Pansy while he had spent the past month resenting her? Now he just wanted to see her. Suddenly, something clicked in his brain. “Has she had the baby yet?”

Mr Borgin looked at him with amusement.  _Amusement_? He nodded. “She had the baby, indeed,” he replied, sighing. “A stillbirth, I’m afraid.” He shrugged his shoulders lightly. “Such a pity. It was a boy.” 

Draco looked at Mr Borgin without really seeing him. He felt his head swim and his heart beat almost painfully against his rib cage. All the rage he had felt for her in the past weeks had dissipated completely, leaving him with a sense of guilt and shame and a longing to hold her in his arms. He imagined her upstairs, probably lying on a bed as she let time heal her pain. Was she crying? He couldn’t imagine her crying, for the only time he had seen her do it – when that damn Hippogriff had tried to slice off his arm – she was pretending just to help him get Rubeus Hagrid sacked.

“Mr Malfoy?” Mr Borgin called him.

Draco looked at him, finally managing to focus on his face. The man was looking back at him with a cruel smile upon his lips, as if seeing Draco’s pain was making him happy. What was wrong with him? He had lost a son, hadn’t he? Had he already cried out all his pain? Why wasn’t he wearing a despairing face? “What?” asked Draco heatedly.

“Do you want to buy the cards?” he finally asked.

Draco clenched his jaw. “No,” he replied curtly. “I would like to see your wife to offer my condolences.”

Mr Borgin’s face darkened. He threw the deck of cards inside the chest and closed it noisily, showing that he didn’t care if Draco didn’t want to buy anything that day. “I’m afraid she doesn’t want to see anybody,” he replied icily, giving him his back and walking back to the counter.

“I’m sure she won’t mind if I go and see her,” replied Draco, following him.

Mr Borgin turned to look at him. “As I said, Mr Malfoy,” he hissed, “my wife doesn’t desire to see anybody.”

Draco felt the urge to hex Mr Borgin and step on his body as he made his way to the flat. Draco could at least have told him that he knew for sure that Pansy wanted to see him! He could have explained why to that horrible man! But that would have only meant a punishment to Pansy. If only he could take her away from that place… “Why don’t you go and ask her?” Draco questioned, his voice heavy with anger.

Mr Borgin raised his chin and scrunched his nose in a nasty gesture. “Because she is resting,” he hissed, “and I don’t want to disturb her just because a  _client_  wants to see her.” He said the word ‘client’ with unnecessary disdain.

Draco flared his nostrils. “Can you at least tell her that I’ve been here?” he asked coldly.

Mr Borgin offered him a smile. “Of course, Mr Malfoy,” he replied, his voice high. “Anything else?”

Draco nodded. “Tell her…” But nothing that he wanted to tell her he could have said to that man. “Tell her that I’m sorry for her loss.”

“I will,” hissed Mr Borgin. “Now, are you going to buy something today?”

Draco had to bite his tongue to restrain himself from saying something that either he or Pansy would have later regretted. He shook his head and turned on his heels. He didn’t even bid him goodbye as he walked out of the shop. He stopped a few feet from the door and turned to look at the windows over Borgin and Burkes, where he imagined their flat was.

“Pansy,” he murmured, his voice filled with misery. “I…” But whatever he wanted to say to her, he couldn’t find the words. The only thing that he wanted was to see her and hold her against his chest as he soothed her pain with his presence.

***

Months went by and slowly and unwillingly, Pansy fell back into her old routine. The only difference was that she wasn’t allowed to use magic anymore, and that she had to spend all her time amongst the four walls of their house. She had to clean and to cook every day, but she spent most of her time lying on the bed as if those simple chores exhausted her. She had also been able to eat again when Borgin finally understood that she could only bear to stand little quantities of food at a time. She was now filling up a little, even though she was still far from having a healthy weight.

She also found out – to her despair – that she was useless at Wandless Magic. She had even found a book in the living room that explained what to do in detail, but she hadn’t been able to do much more than summoning a piece of parchment from the table to the couch. Had she been more skilled, she would have already used her magic to find her wand and finally kill him the way he had killed her son. But like that, she was powerless and at the mercy of her husband.

She was starting to think that that was going to be her new life. Prisoner in her own house, with a man that she hated, feeling as helpless as a Muggle. She cringed at the very thought. She was not a Muggle. She was a witch. And a pretty good witch too. She remembered when she was at Hogwarts, she was a star pupil and was made a Prefect. Top of the class – when that class didn’t include Hermione Granger – and one of Snape’s favourite students. And now… she was the shadow of herself. Her only desire was to kill Borgin, and she felt like she would never be able to do it. Too weak, too helpless, too stupid to manage.

If only she was given one chance to take Borgin by surprise…

***

Draco took far too long to find the courage to write to Pansy: two months since he had visited Borgin and Burkes, three since her delivery. He was ashamed, but the news had upset him more than he cared to admit.

He fidgeted nervously with the feather he was holding and stared at the parchment. The words didn’t have enough emotions. Not that he knew what he was doing; emotions were not a field in which he was an expert anyway, but he would have paid to be able to express everything he felt at that moment. Instead, all that came out in ink was  _I’m sorry for your loss. Come to the flat._ And that didn’t work. He wanted to tell her how much he missed her, and what he would give to hold her in his arms. He wanted to be the shoulder on which she could have cried or the ears that would have listened to her sobs. He wanted to be with her, to touch her, to feel her, to comfort her, to take her away from that horrible husband of hers.

So many things he felt, and so little he could express. He shook his head forcefully. Those words would do anyway, Pansy knew him. She knew how things were with him. She didn’t expect him to write a mushy poem to tell her what he felt. They had never been fluffy, and surely wouldn’t start now.

He put the parchment in an envelope and scribbled her name and address on it. He was not a writer. She would understand.

***

Pansy’s eyes opened wide when she felt the hand on her stomach. She tensed every single muscle of her body and heard her heart starting to beat quickly in her chest.

Borgin lowered his head to nuzzle at her ear. “It looks like you are ready for me to have another go at you,” he murmured, his hot, smelly breath washing over her neck.

Pansy cursed herself for having let him walk on her in her underwear. She wasn’t usually that careless, but that night she was tired and all she wanted was to change, lie down and fall into a dreamless sleep.

Instead, now Borgin was standing behind her, his lurid hands tracing her stomach and her ribs, brushing dangerously closely to the hem of her knickers and her covered breasts.

She wriggled away from him and noticed just how easy it was to step away. She turned to look at him and her heart skipped a beat when she saw him licking his lips, eyes clouded with lust.

“Why?” she breathed, narrowing her eyes.

He walked towards her, and she backed away until her shoulder blades were digging painfully into the wardrobe. “It’s time for you to have my heir,” he growled, standing a few inches from her. “I’ve waited long enough.”

She snorted. “What is it that you don’t understand?” she asked bitterly. “You can fuck me into that mattress for the rest of your life and still you won’t have an heir.”

He was so quick that Pansy didn’t even notice his movements. She did notice the sting on her cheek where he slapped her, and the fact that her head banged against the wood behind her. Her vision blurred a little, and as she brought a hand to her cheek she found it hot for the slap.

“Don’t you dare,” he growled. “You will have my child, I don’t care what you have to do.” He stepped back and started to shrug off his robe. “Undress,” he ordered her with a bark.

Pansy looked at him with hatred in her eyes, she let the hand that was soothing her cheek fall to her side and held her face high as if it were a badge of honour. “No,” she hissed defiantly.

Borgin stopped half-way through his motions. He raised his eyes to look at her and gritted his teeth. “What?” he bit out in a dangerous hiss.

She stared at him and took a deep breath, pushing her chest out to seem bigger and more threatening than what she was. “I said no,” she repeated a bit more loudly. It had been more than a year since he had wanted to touch her, and Pansy had forgotten how much she hated it. Now, as he ordered her to get undressed, all the memories came flooding to her mind once again. The first night he had taken her – taken her fake virginity away –, the weeks when her scar still hurt her and he loved to see her writhe under him, the times he pushed into her when she was still dry. And every time she never found release.

He shook his head, a mocking smile on his lips. “I don’t understand if you’re stupid or simply a fool,” he hissed calmly. “Has the pain made you lose your mind?”

Pansy didn’t reply. Probably, yes. All she knew was that she wouldn’t let him touch her without putting up a fight. Her small hands balled into fists and she glared darkly at him.

“You know I can tie you up and make your underwear vanish before you even understand what is going on, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely hiding some annoyance.

Still, Pansy kept quiet. She knew that he had the upper hand, but she just couldn’t give in to him.

“Or I could use another coin,” he mused, “the first one left such a nice pattern on your skin, didn’t it?” He looked at her scar, smiling cruelly. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a matching dragon on the other side?” He looked at her legs. “Or did I say I would use your thigh the last time?”

Promises of physical pain didn’t scare her as much as they should have, and Pansy found herself still staring with insolence into the dark eyes of the man who guaranteed to make her suffer. He looked to be on the verge of hexing her. She could see the swell in his pocket where his hand clutched the wand and had to push the fear of knowing what an Unforgivable Curse felt like at the back of her head if she wanted to keep fighting.

But then, slowly, something dawned in Pansy’s mind. She had to let him have her. She had to let him get lost in the bliss of his orgasm. She had to let him lose control. Her heart beat even more furiously when she understood what she had to do.

And Borgin did exactly what she wanted him to do. He drew out his wand and pointed it towards her. “Undress,” he ordered one last time.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly, her eyes wide. Almost, almost, she had to be sure that he would keep his wand in his hand.

He glared at her with hatred and raised his wand. “ _Cru_ —”

“No!” Pansy fell on her knees. “No, please, don’t!” Her eyes filled with forced tears, tears that she was sure would have an arousing effect on him. She looked at him, fear in her eyes as she wetted her cheeks with her salt water. “I’ll do anything you want,” she added in a murmur, “please.”

Borgin smirked with satisfaction. “A small incentive was all you needed, right?” he asked, faking a sweet tone. “Undress,” he repeated, “and get on the bed.”

Pansy’s hands trembled at her sides. She lowered her eyes on the floor, but couldn’t see much through her tears. She brought her fingers to the clasp of her bra and let the undergarment fall on the floor. She braced her arms around her breasts in an involuntary gesture and kept her eyes low.

“Your knickers too,” he urged her.

Pansy stood, her knees throbbing slightly. She let her hair fall over her eyes to hide her face from him. She covered her small breasts with one arm as her other hand went to the hem of her knickers. She pulled them down along her legs and bent to let them slide over her feet. She stepped out of them and instinctively brought her hand to cover between her legs, like she had done the first time he had taken her.

“Lovely,” he growled in almost a feral way. She didn’t have to raise her eyes to know that he was looking at her. “Get on the bed.”

She didn’t move. She raised her eyes to him though, as if to silently plead to spare her that moment. She was crestfallen to notice that he was already naked and erect, her fear stricken eyes giving him enough pleasure on their own. He raised his wand once again and grunted urgently.

Pansy’s eyes lowered on the wand and, without losing sight of it, she stepped towards the bed. He reached out to her as she came to stand close enough to him. His free hand went to the wrist that was pressed on her cleavage. He clutched his fingers around it and brought it down violently, exposing her breasts. She whimpered in surprise as he reached out to twist a nipple between his thumb and index finger. “As if I haven’t already seen you naked,” he mocked, a smirk in his voice. But Pansy wasn’t looking at him; the wand pointed at her neck was all she had eyes for.

He grabbed her upper arm and pushed her back on the bed. She fell without a sound, her lips parting slightly at the moment of her impact with the mattress. Borgin knelt at the bottom of the bed. Pushing her feet away with his hand, he spread her legs and looked down at her. His wand was still in his hand and Pansy prayed that he wasn’t going to throw it to the floor.

For now, he kept it firmly in his hand as he pulled her against him until the head of his erection was resting against her clit. She was still dry, she was tight, and she was unprepared. She knew it would hurt like hell. She felt the handle of his wand brushing against her inner thigh as he pulled her to him, as his weight rested against her legs and he pushed into her.

She arched her back and cried out in pain. He inched slowly into her, probably not as a sign of gentleness to make her accustomed to him, but because she could hear from his groans that she was almost hurting him. She rejoiced in that thought, but then remembered that he loved to see the pain in her eyes and probably found the pain on himself equally arousing.

She compelled herself to cry and shake with sobs. It wasn’t difficult, because that was what she had always wanted to do when he had taken her in the past. And it helped, as she glanced briefly at him before returning her gaze on the wand, she saw that he was looking at her mesmerised by her despair, his eyes clouded with lust.

He lowered his body on hers and licked her tears away as if they were a good wine. “Yes,” he breathed against her cheek, “cry. Cry until your throat is dry and your eyes hurt.”

She forced more tears to stream down her face to please him. She was so focused on his tongue now that when he inched out of her and then thrust back in again she cried out in surprise rather than pain. She sunk her head in the mattress and felt his fingers clutching on her locks, his wand brushing her forehead distractedly.

He kissed her slowly and slimily, leaving a wet trail of saliva on her lips and chin. Pansy looked away, scared she would be sick and he would withdraw from her.

He straightened his back and brought a hand to her thigh, inching it up a little bit to offer him a different angle of penetration. His other hand went leisurely to her scar, his fingers pushing forcefully at it, the point of his wand pressing into the side of her breast.

Pansy let out a cry of discomfort rather than pain, for the scar didn’t hurt anymore, but she didn’t like to be touched there.

Borgin started to pound into her then, and the room filled with the lewd sounds of their mating. His balls shoved against her buttocks every time he pushed into her, and his hands squeezed her a little bit tighter every time he pulled out.

Pansy tried to close her eyes and imagine herself being somewhere else and with someone else. She couldn’t, for the only two other people she had ever lain with were so much different from this man. Lucius was firm and authoritarian, but never unpleasant, whilst Draco… Draco was everything she needed and everything she wanted. She couldn’t find a way to imagine being with either of them. Especially not when Borgin started to groan and increase the pace of his thrusts. Pansy opened her eyes to look at him. He had his own eyes closed, his mouth half-opened, his cheeks flushed. He was almost there, while she couldn’t feel anything. It was as if from her lower abdomen to her toes she had lost any sensitivity. Maybe Borgin had broken her.

She bucked her hips to meet his thrusts and finally felt him slowing down and pushing deep into her. He pulsed subtly between her folds and opened his mouth to scream his release as his seed coated her insides.

Pansy parted her lips to take a deep breath. Her right hand darted across her body until her fingers closed around the wand that was resting against her breast. She pulled it out of his loose grasp without difficulty and pointed it towards his naked chest.

She could have done it at that very moment, she could have killed him. But then, she wouldn’t have any satisfaction. She wanted to make him suffer. She grasped the wand with both hands and widened her eyes, waiting for him to look down at her.

It felt like it took him ages to come down from the wave of his orgasm, his hips still jerking sporadically between his legs long seconds after he had come. Finally, though, he opened his eyes and looked down at Pansy. At first, he smiled cruelly at her as he leisurely shoved into her. Then, he lowered his eyes to the thing that was poking in his chest and his smile faltered as a fearful expression appeared on his face.

Pansy looked at him with merciless eyes. “ _Stupefy_.”

***

“Dinner is about to be served,” announced Astoria haughtily, “and I’m sent up here to fetch know like a house-elf.”

Draco didn’t look up from the post. “How very unfortunate,” he replied tonelessly, opening another envelope. Nothing from London. Nothing from Pansy.

“Your mother won’t be pleased if you are late,” she hissed coldly.

Draco growled. “I have almost finished,” he let her know, “and then I’ll be downstairs.”

Astoria didn’t move from the doorway for a long time, until Draco raised his eyes to finally look at her.

“What?” he grunted.

She shook her head softly, her perfect curls bouncing around her face. “Nothing,” she replied, but somehow Draco felt like that ‘nothing’ meant something that he couldn’t quite grasp.

***

Pansy was shaking violently as she tried to push Borgin’s unconscious body off of her. He seemed to be twice as heavy as usual, but she knew that couldn’t be right. It was her, she was weak, or maybe it was her palms, burnt after she had cast the spell with Borgin’s wand only a few inches from herself.

His wand had Stupefied him, spun out of her hands and landed on the floor and she hadn’t even seen in which direction it went. Now she was frantic as she tried to push him away from her. She had already inched her hips up to let him slide out of her; she couldn’t bear to have him lodged in her any longer. She had to be quick, though, because if he gained his consciousness on top of her she would be dead.

She let out a guttural sound and panted heavily as she pushed at his chest. “Get off,” she muttered, scrunching her eyes in the effort. Finally, his body was pushed off of hers and he fell on the mattress next to Pansy. She sat up at once, gulping down air as she brought her knees to her chest. She didn’t look at him as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. She started to look frantically for the wand. It had fallen on the floor, she had heard the thump against the cold tiles. Where was it? It was dark, she couldn’t see anything. When had the sun gone down? What time was it now? She knelt on the floor, trying to use her hands to search for the wand. She tried to remember where she had seen it flying.

“ _Accio_!” she cried desperately. Nothing happened. She banged her fists on the floor. “Come on,” she sobbed. She circled the bed and touched every single tile in the hope to come across it. Nothing, her fingers didn’t stroke anything but coldness. She sat with her back against the bed and stretched her hand in front of her. “ _Lumos_!” she cried. Nothing happened. She let out a groan of despair and banged her fists against her temples. Why was she so inept with Wandless magic?

“ _Lumos_!  _Lumos_!  _Lumos_!” As the last spell left her lips a feeble glow appeared around her fingertips and lit the room for a couple of seconds before disappearing.

Pansy let out a strangled cry of happiness. “ _Lumos_!” she cried again, and again the glow appeared. She stood up and looked at the floor as she said the spell one last time. The room lit up and there it was, half-hidden under the bed and the bedside table, as if it didn’t want her to find it. She threw herself at it, grabbing the piece of wood as if her life depended on it. She raised it in front of her and stretched her arm. “ _Accio wand_ ,” she said loud and clear.

Borgin’s wand twitched in her hand and once again Pansy felt it jolting away from her grip. But she didn’t care too much, because she heard a tearing of fabric, probably a pocket, and then the wardrobe burst open and her own wand zoomed towards her. She felt it in the darkness and stretched her hand out to welcome it in her palm. It landed gracefully and she grasped with all her might, until her nails were poking into her own flesh.

“Thank you,” she breathed out, squeezing the familiar object in her hand.

Finally she was able to light up the room with a flick of her wand. She did and stopped. Now what? She hadn’t killed Borgin. She had just Stunned him. She had no clue why, though. She shook her head. She knew. She wanted to make him suffer before he exhaled his last breath. She wanted him to scream in pain as she tortured him like he had done to her. That was why she hadn’t killed him. Not because she was soft. Not because she wasn’t able to kill.

She finally looked at him. His neck was bending in an awkward angle, but his chest heaved softly as if he was just sleeping. His flaccid member rested on his thigh, smeared with his own come. Pansy grimaced at the sight and threw a sheet over his figure. Then she remembered that she was naked and that his seed was still inside of her. The very thought made her cringe. She Scoured herself clean and went to the wardrobe. A black dress with three quarter length sleeves that reached right under her knees was her choice. It was still a bit too loose on her figure, but she looked lovely in that.

Lovely like an Angel of Death.

She turned again towards Borgin and bit her bottom lip, trying hard to decide what would make him suffer the most. Then something struck her mind and she let out a soft laugh. She had a whole shop full of torture devices downstairs, she could choose the most appropriate ones and use them at her pleasure.

First though, she had a letter to write. Just a few sentences, not much. Just to let Draco know that if he wanted her from now on he would have to come to Azkaban to see her. And then she would take down the anti-Apparition wards. She needed a walk outside before she killed him. She needed to feel the stars shine above her head and the wind on her cheeks one last time.

***

“I believe Scorpius’ first birthday party was a success,” stated Narcissa lightly, sipping some wine from a tall glass. “I managed to have a look at the article they are going to publish on the next issue of  _Witch Weekly_ , and I couldn’t see anything wrong with it.”

“That’s surely a first,” muttered Draco under his breath, gaining himself a scowl from Astoria.

“It was a success, wasn’t it, Narcissa?” chirped Astoria. “Everybody loved the wine and the French desserts we ordered from Paris.” 

Draco cleaned his mouth with a filigreed linen napkin. “Yes,” he pointed out bitterly, “especially Scorpius.”

Astoria let out an amused giggle. “I’m afraid Draco wanted a more baby-friendly party,” she scoffed, looking at Narcissa.

Lucius swallowed a piece of his filet bourguignon and curled his lips in a smirk. “There’ll be plenty of time for that, Draco,” he let him know, “you will have so much time with him that there’ll come a time when all you want is for Scorpius to go to Hogwarts and leave you alone.”

Draco cocked an eyebrow. Was that what his father had thought of him? How lovely. How lovely indeed. There would not come such a time where he wanted Scorpius to leave the Manor. For now, his son was all he had.

“When are your parents coming to visit, Astoria?” asked Narcissa, as she cut another slice of her filet.

She smiled brightly. “Next month,” she replied, “and Daphne is coming too.”

Draco shot her a glare. That was the first time he heard about such visitation. It annoyed him tremendously when she kept things from him, and she seemed to do that continuously.

“How lovely,” replied Narcissa, smiling softly, “with her children?”

Astoria nodded.

“How many has she got now?” asked Lucius, arranging his cutlery on the empty plate.

“She is expecting her third one,” she murmured, and Draco could see the discomfort on her face.

“My,” he quipped, “is she having a competition with the Weasleys?”

Astoria shot him a glare and Draco smirked back at her. He loved when he managed to enrage his wife. She was so protective of her sister it was simply too easy for Draco to comment on Daphne and drive her mad. He brought his glass to his mouth and gulped down a generous amount of wine.

“What?” barked Astoria in Draco’s direction.

He brought down the glass and looked at her without understanding. Had she not listened to him? What was she asking? Then, a small voice at his back made him aware of the presence of a house-elf in the room.

“A letter arrived. Libby brings the letter,” squeaked the creature.

Lucius stretched out a hand and the house-elf placed the letter on his palm before snapping her long, brown fingers and disappearing from the room. Lucius observed the envelope and raised his eyebrows. Then he looked at Draco and stretched his arm to pass him the missive. “It’s for you,” he declared coldly.

Draco frowned. That was a late time for post. Whoever couldn’t have waited till morning? He looked at his name on the envelope. That name. Written in that tidy and beautiful writing. He felt his heart skipping a beat as he understood who the letter was from.

He took the napkin from his lap and put it on the table as he stood up and pushed the chair back carelessly. “Excuse me,” he murmured stiffly, walking out of the room. He could feel the eyes of his family on his back, but he didn’t care. He walked briskly out of the dining room and into the hallway. He ran up the stairs and walked past Scorpius’ room, and for the first time ever, he didn’t walk in there to see how he was doing. He hurried to his study and bolted the door at his back. He walked to the desk and sat down.

Pansy.

He couldn’t believe it. She had written to him. He had almost lost all hope and now… Pansy! He smiled involuntarily and felt his heartbeat increase in speed.

He opened a drawer and took out a letter opener in the shape of a tiny sword. He cut the envelope open with one quick, experienced slice.

The parchment was small, and when Draco opened it, he noticed that it was not much longer than the message he had sent her four months before. He had hoped for a long and detailed letter about why she hadn’t contacted him before, but instead she had just written that… Draco’s eyes widened. What was she writing? Was she out of her mind?  _Azkaban?_   _Kill him?_ What demon had gotten hold of her?

If he thought about Azkaban, the only thing that came to his mind was his father’s empty and troubled eyes when he had come home, that and… Aunt Bellatrix. He shook his head. What to do? He couldn’t let Pansy end up like her. Crazy, cruel, lost in her own world. No, not Pansy. Not  _his_  Pansy. He had to do something. He could write to her, but no owl, not even his own, would be quick enough to get to her if she really wanted to kill him.

He pushed the chair back and stood up. He had to do something. He had to stop her, try to make her reason. Offer to take her away from Borgin, if she really didn’t want to stay with him anymore. He would solve that situation for her. He would show her how money could buy happiness.

He walked quickly out of the study, down the stairs and into the drawing room where he found his family reunited in front of steaming cups of tea. He stood in the doorway, unsure as to what to say, his lips were parted and his eyes wide. “I…” He gulped, his eyes wandering for the room. “I have to go out.”

Narcissa raised an eyebrow. “Where?” she asked with annoyance.

Draco looked at her and shook his head. “I’ll be back soon,” he murmured, before turning on his heels and walking into the hallway. He grabbed his coat and pushed the main door open. His shoes scraped against the pebbled path that led to the gate, and when he was almost there he turned to look at the Manor to make sure that nobody was following him.

He gritted his teeth and thought intensely of Knockturn Alley. Soon his stomach was being pulled in every direction with the familiar tug of Apparition as his house disappeared before his eyes and was replaced by a dark and empty corner of the street.

Borgin and Burkes stood in front of him. Dark, closed, and uninviting. He walked to the front door and cupped his hands around his eyes. At first he couldn’t see much; he had to wait for his eyes to get used to the darkness. Then slowly, he started to make out some shapes. The more he looked the more it seemed to him as if a robbery had just taken place in there, for items that Borgin usually stored carefully in boxes were now scattered on the floor.

He banged his fists on the door. “Pansy!” he called out loud, uncaring if some old hag or some creepy wizard heard him. “Mr Borgin!” He banged his fists a couple more times and then stilled to listen for noises inside the shop. Nothing happened though, and he wondered if he wasn’t too late.

Draco raised his eyes on the windows above the shop, just as he had done the last time he was there, and his breath caught in his throat. A faint light was coming from one of the windows. Maybe it was not too late. Maybe he could still convince her that going to Azkaban for killing a man such as Borgin was not worth it.

What to do, though? He could send a spark from his wand, but what if Borgin saw it? He didn’t know if he was awake, if they were duelling, or if she was using her bare hands to choke him to death. No. Draco shook his head. That was such a ridiculous thought. Pansy was so much smaller than him, she would have never been able to pin him against the wall and strangle him. Maybe  _he_  was pinning her against the wall.

Draco groaned. He had to see her. Make sure that she was all right. He gritted his teeth. He had never seen her flat, but it was so close, it shouldn’t be difficult. Worst case scenario, he would bump into the Anti-Apparition ward, if they had any.

He closed his eyes and focused on the flat above the shop. Draco Disapparated, and when he Apparated again he was standing in a dark room. There was nothing remarkable about it; it was small, clean, and not particularly fancy. He wondered if it was the right place. Nothing indicated that Pansy lived there.

“ _Lumos_ ,” he murmured with his wand held high.

He looked around himself and was hit with the knowledge that this was the first time that he saw where Pansy lived – if he was in the right place. He had never expected her to live in a Mansion such as himself, but this place could have fitted in the drawing room of Malfoy Manor. How could she live in such a small flat? Wasn’t she ashamed of that squalid place?

A loud thump and a soft whimper snapped Draco out of his thoughts. It was coming from a half-closed door down the hallway. There even was a glow coming from there. He raised his wand, noticing only at that moment that he was trespassing on private propriety. Well, too bad for them for not having any anti-Apparition wards in place. 

He walked as noiselessly as he could towards that door and stopped when he saw a shadow on the floor. Could it be Pansy? He kept his wand in front of him just in case, and pushed the door open with it. He expected it to creak – a creaking door would only be fitting in a place like that – but it didn’t. He swallowed and found his mouth was dry as he peered inside.

His heart skipped a beat. It was the right place.

The first thing he saw was Borgin’s naked body, covered only with a sheet, on the bed. He focused on his chest and was relieved to see that it was still rising and lowering. He took a tentative step inside and finally saw her. She was opening box after box with frantic movements of her nimble fingers. She muttered a spell to help her along the process. Every time she managed to take out an artefact she looked at it briefly before either throwing it on the floor or putting it on her dresser. Sometimes she retracted her hands and whimpered as if something had hurt her.

Draco looked at her, mesmerised. He should have walked in there and talked to her. He should have stopped whatever she was doing, but he just couldn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the shoulders and hair of the person that he had missed so much, his heart was beating furiously in his chest.

Finally, she seemed to have looked through every single box and turned towards the bed. Draco could see her milky skin as being almost paler than usual, as if she hadn’t been in the sun for months, or maybe it was just the black dress that she was wearing. She took a step towards the bed and raised her wand to Borgin. Draco noticed how her lips were slightly parted, as if she was trying to gulp down as much air as possible. She looked steady and ready to kill, just like a snake.

Draco knew the truth, though.

She was no killer.

“Pansy,” he murmured so faintly that he was afraid she hadn’t heard him.

She did, though, and when she jerked her head to look at him, he was glad to find no madness in her eyes. Only pain. A deep, heart-wrenching pain. She still had her wand pointed to Borgin, but Draco could see her hand shaking now.

He raised his hand as if to calm her down, his wand lowered at his side.

“What are you doing here?” she asked frantically, her voice high.

Slowly Draco cocked his head and took a step towards her. “I can’t let you go to Azkaban,” he explained firmly, “and you are not a murderer.”

She shook her head, her teeth torturing her bottom lip. “ _You_  are not a murderer, Draco,” she cried. “ _You_  couldn’t kill Dumbledore.” She gulped. “But I can, and I will kill this man.”

“Pansy…”

She slapped her bare foot on the floor. “Don’t!” she screamed. “You don’t know anything at all!”

Draco took another step towards her. “I do know,” he told her quickly, “Borgin told me about your son.” He stretched a hand to touch her, but she was still too far from him and she didn’t move.

Pansy’s face fell. She lowered her eyes and seemed to try to want to say something, but she couldn’t find the words. “You… you know…” she finally stammered, “he… he told you.”

Draco nodded. “He told me that you had a stillbirth,” he let her know soothingly, taking another step towards her. “I’m so sorry for your child, Pansy.”

When Pansy raised her eyes to look at him again, he felt his heart freeze in his chest.  _Pansy was crying_. Big, shiny tears were running down her cheeks, making her eyes looking brighter and bigger and her face look even sadder. She looked small and young and fragile and all he wanted was to hug her until she stopped.

“Pansy…” he repeated, despair in his voice.

“Yes,” she replied and he was surprised at how firm her voice was, “yes, a stillbirth.” She nodded as if to confirm his statement. “Horrible, horrible thing.”

Draco frowned and pressed his lips together. He took another step towards her and finally he was close enough to touch her. He didn’t though. “Come away with me,” he whispered, “I’ll take you so far from this man he will never find you.”

Pansy looked up at him, and Draco saw that she didn’t believe a word he was saying. He stepped in front of her, standing between her wand and the bed.

“Move!” she cried, desperation in her voice.

Draco shook his head softly. “I’ve seen people come out of Azkaban,” he reminded her, “They became shadows of themselves.” He stretched his hands towards her shoulders. “You are not like them.” He brushed her arms with his fingers. “You are not a murderer.”

He saw her bottom lip tremble, her eyes filling with fresh tears, her hands shaking. Slowly, oh so slowly, she lowered her wand and let her eyes wander the room.

Draco closed the distance between them and made his arms slide over her back, pulling her in a firm embrace. He could feel her bony body, so much smaller than what she used to be in the past few months, crushed against his own. He hugged her as if his own life depended on that contact. He leaned his cheek on her head and inhaled her scent. She didn’t hug him back, her body still trembling in his arms.

He caressed her back, feeling the small bumps of her spine. “Shh,” he soothed her, “I’m here.” He kissed the top of her head and felt her relax a little. “I’m here, I’m not going to let you go.”

Finally her arms sneaked up his body and he could feel her fingers clutching at his cloak. She pushed her face in his chest, soaking it with tears. “You don’t know anything,” she sobbed against him, “you don’t know anything.”

Draco hugged her more forcefully. “Then tell me,” he whispered.

She shook her head, raising it a little over his shoulder. “Draco, I…” Her voice trailed away, then suddenly she screamed, “NO!”

And then, everything occurred so quickly, Draco didn’t even know what had happened at all, or how it happened. Pansy looked so fragile and weak and still, taking him by surprise, she managed to free herself from his arms and push on his chest to send him staggering against the wardrobe. He knocked his back against one of the doors and stumbled to the floor. And from there he could only watch with his eyes wide in horror and his mouth hanging open as a naked and kneeling Borgin screamed, “ _Crucio_!” and a red light shot from his wand and hit Pansy’s chest.  

He looked in shock for what seemed ages as her wand fell at her feet with a soft noise, as she fell to her knees and writhed in pain. The most ear-piercing scream he had ever heard filled his ears and made his hair stand at the back of his head. He was petrified as he looked at Pansy’s big, dark eyes and at her white trembling lips. She shook with untold pain, and Draco couldn’t imagine in his wildest dreams what she was going through. Her body curved in a small, wounded ‘C’ as all her limbs twitched and shook and her sobs and cries and screams needled his heart.

He raised his eyes to Borgin and saw that the man was smiling cruelly, his eyes filled with pleasure as he looked at Pansy thrashing on the floor. He twitched his wand and the red light coming from it seemed to intensify, and Pansy’s screams seemed to become louder.

And then…

“ _Avada Kedavra_.”

It took Draco a few, long, tense seconds to understand that the green light had spurted from his own wand. It took him even longer to come to the realisation that the voice that had spoken the incantation was his own.

He looked as Borgin’s body fell back on the bed. Eyes wide open and limbs bending in awkward positions.

 _He had killed him_.

The realisation dawned in his head as he stood up from the floor. He had killed Borgin. For the first time in his life, he had killed someone. He felt nauseated at how easy that had been. But he was torturing Pansy, and only a fool would think of torturing Pansy in front of him and believe that Draco wouldn’t make him pay.

He tore his eyes from the dead man and looked down at the heap of bones that was Pansy. She was not screaming anymore, but her body was still twitching in the aftermath of the pain. Her cheek was pressed against the cold tiles of the floor and her eyes were wide open, but seemed unable to see anything at all.

He remembered Hermione Granger being tortured by his Aunt. He had turned his eyes away that time, and her screams had given him goose bumps. He didn’t even like Granger. And now, with Pansy, it had just been ten times worse; he felt as if someone had pierced his heart with a thick needle.

He hurried to her side and knelt next to her, making his arms slide under her armpits, pulling her to him. He heard her whimper at the sudden movement, but he hoped that she could bear it because he just needed to hug her. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, “I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” He rocked her in his arms. He wanted to ask her if she were okay, but that was probably the stupidest question he could ask at that moment so he kept quiet.

He felt her fingers trying to grasp his arm, but she was too weak. He caressed her, kissed her and soothed her until her whimpers became mere sighs. He didn’t know how long it would take for the pain to recede from her body, because she was small and Draco had been slow to act.

He remembered Bellatrix talking about Longbottom’s parents after she had tortured them with the Cruciatus Curse. They were still at St Mungo’s. If Pansy ended up in St Mungo’s, he would have brought Borgin back to life only to kill him again and again.

“Draco…” she whimpered softly.

“I’m here,” he whispered urgently, “I’ve got you, Pansy.”

She pushed her face against the front of his robe and he let her. He drew circles on her back until her muscles unclenched under his touch.

Draco didn’t know how much time had passed since he took her into his arms, but he could have stayed there forever if it were necessary.

Somewhere in the flat a Grandfather Clock struck, but Draco didn’t count the chimes.

She finally managed to grip his arms with her small fingers and to raise her face to look at him. Her immense eyes looked at him through a curtain of pain and daze. He couldn’t help himself. He let go of her back to cup her cheeks and kissed her gently on her pale lips. Once, twice, three times. She let him, and only when his lips touched hers for the fourth time did she try to respond to him.

He leaned his forehead against hers and took a deep breath. Yes, he had killed a man, but as he hugged and soothed Pansy he knew that he hadn’t had a choice. Yes, of course he could have used a Disarming Charm or a Stunning Spell, but the view of Pansy’s suffering body had been all the encouragement he needed to eradicate the problem.

He withdrew as he felt her cold fingers closing around his wrists. She kept her eyes low as she backed away from him and moved away his hands from her body. She tried to stand up, but it looked like her muscles were still in pain.

Draco pushed his hands on the floor and stood up only to notice that his own knees ached terribly after all the time in that position. “Here,” he whispered, grabbing her gently around the waist, “let me.”

She leaned against him as he pulled her to her feet. Her knees buckled and he had to support her until she was ready to sustain her own weight on her bare legs.

“I’m okay,” she murmured, after a while, “thank you.” She placed a hand on his upper arm and pushed him away weakly.

Draco kept his eyes on her face as she finally looked at the dead man on the bed. She could have felt a thousand different emotions, but none showed on her face. Draco could only imagine that she would feel scared, grateful, lost, relieved. He expected her to laugh in relief or to cry in surprise. He didn’t expect her to turn to look at him with her eyes wide.

“You have to go,” she urged him.

Draco furrowed his brow. “What?” he asked without understanding. “And leaving you here? No, absolutely not…”

She shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she whispered frantically, “the curtain was not drawn. The light…” Pansy swallowed. “They might have seen the light.”

“Then they’ll have also seen the red light of his Cruciatus,” replied Draco gently. “It’ll be all right, Pansy. It was a justifiable homicide.” As he said the words out loud, he knew that no Wizengamot would have ever believed him. There were so many other spells that he could have used instead of the Killing Curse.

She shook her head again. “Go home,” she cried, “you don’t understand.”

Draco looked crestfallen at her. “Let me…” he stuttered, “let me take care of the body.”

“I’ll do it,” she replied urgently, “but you have to go.” She looked at him now. “If someone saw the light… Borgin was respected here…” She took a sharp breath. “I know how to take care of them, but you…” She bit her bottom lip. “You have a family. If they see you, Draco…”

Draco took some time to decide if she was making sense at all or if she was still in shock. Who could have seen them? The street had been deserted when he had arrived. He was sure nobody was there. No, he was not sure, he couldn’t have been.

“Go,” Pansy repeated, grabbing the front of his robe and shaking it. “Go home.”

Draco glanced at Borgin then back at Pansy, torn. Finally, he decided that she was right. He had killed him, all she had to do was to hide the body. He stepped back and looked at her. “I’ll come tomorrow,” he breathed.

Pansy nodded slowly. Then she threw herself at him. “Wait,” she murmured urgently. She stood on tiptoes and kissed him properly. He could feel her tongue tracing his lips and he opened his mouth to welcome it. She seemed to have found the vigour that the curse had only momentarily numbed. She withdrew almost as unexpectedly as she had initiated the kiss. “Thank you,” she murmured as she stepped back.

Draco touched her until she was out of his reach and his arm fell at his side. He nodded softly, quite unable to say anything that made sense. He stared into her eyes and she stared back at him until she disappeared from his view and he found himself back in the garden of the Manor.

***

Pansy stared at where Draco had Disapparated for an interminably long moment. She could still feel a subtle throb in every cell of her body, a reminder of Borgin’s last present to her. And now Borgin was lying dead on the bed where he had tortured her for so many nights. It looked only fitting to Pansy. The place where he had made her suffer had become his own tomb. The place where Draco had killed him for her.

She remembered months before when she had mocked him, asking him if he would kill a man for her. Never, not even in her wildest dreams would she have ever imagined that he would have killed for her. She felt loved and slightly in awe of that man that she had known all her life and had witnessed crying in the bathroom when he couldn’t kill their Headmaster. Pansy flashed a sad smile. Strangely enough, she almost felt more powerful than Voldemort for having made Draco do what the Dark Lord couldn’t.

Not that she had done anything at all. She would have been happy to kill Borgin herself. Or not. Now that she looked at the lifeless figure with those disturbing eyes open to stare back at her, she felt a surge of disgust and fear that she might not have been able to do it if Draco hadn’t been there.

And then what would her life have been? Still a slave to that man, still a prisoner in her own house. She was horrified to think about those things. If Draco hadn’t been there, Borgin would still be alive, still be her torturer. She was grateful. Grateful that he had taken the burden upon his shoulders for her.

Pansy closed her eyes and tried to shake those thoughts away. She would marvel about him later, for now she had to take care of the body. How to do it, though? She had to hide it for a while, tell everybody that he had left maybe, and then sell the shop and leave herself. But hide him where? And what about the stench? Borgin already smelled when he was alive, as soon as his body started to decay it would be unbearable. She could have used some sort of artefact from downstairs, something lethal, and tell everybody that it had been an accident. She had to cover the signs of the Killing Curse, she had to find something that could do that, some kind of object that would have made his heart stop like the curse. Maybe if she covered him with the coins the shock would have been too intense… but how to explain that it had been an accident?

Pansy didn’t know. She had to sleep on it. She still couldn’t believe what had just happened. But she couldn’t sleep; she couldn’t wait that much, she had to clear her head and do something. She found her wand on the floor and picked it up, her fingers clenching around it. She pointed it to Borgin’s figure. She had to act quickly. He would start to get rigid in a matter of hours, and she had to move him if she didn’t want to end up with a twisted corpse that would have betrayed how he was dead.

She pointed her wand to him. What incantation to use? She found out that she couldn’t remember. She found out that she couldn’t think. She twitched her wand, hoping for a spell to come out by itself. Her hand started to shake. She was good at using spells, why couldn’t she remember anything? She opened her mouth to say something but couldn’t think of anything.

But then she couldn’t say anything at all because flashes of light blinded her and a strong wind sent the window to pieces.

“Get her wand!” someone shouted and immediately three Disarming Charms were sent her way. She felt her wand being torn from her grasp and barely saw it flying away.

“Oh,” was all she could mutter as she looked at the people surrounding her now. They were tall, all men, all dressed in black and with a gold ‘M’ on their chests.

Someone grabbed Pansy’s wrists and bent her arms behind her back, keeping them in place with a strong grip of calloused fingers.

“Are we too late?” asked someone anxiously.

“Merlin, is he dead?”

“Check him!”

Someone walked to Borgin and Pansy saw a young man touching his wrist. “He is dead,” he announced.

“Bloody hell,” murmured someone near her. “Check the flat. Is she alone?”

Two men walked swiftly out of the door, and she heard them muttering spells in the hallway and then the other rooms of the house. She raised her head to look at the man who was giving orders – his voice was oddly familiar – but a hand pushed her head down and she let out a whimper at the sudden movement.

“Merlin, Williamson,” growled the one who seemed in charge, “don’t be rough.”

“She was alone,” announced one of the two men that had checked the flat.

“What do we do?”

“I guess we could take her directly to Azkaban,” chuckled someone.

“She will have a regular Hearing,” thundered the man who gave orders. “We’ll take her to the Ministry.”

Pansy felt the fingers that had been crushing her wrists together being replaced by less brutal hands. She dared to look up at the man who was taking her to the Ministry and her eyes widened in shock.

“Don’t resist, Parkinson,” ordered Ronald Weasley, “or you’ll get splinched.” And as he held her wrists tightly he Disapparated with her from the flat.


	10. A Question of Conscience

***

Pansy sat on the bench in her cell. Her knees were to her chest, and the black dress she had been wearing since the night before – the night when Draco had killed Borgin – was barely covering her naked legs and feet. She stared at the wall in front of her as if she expected it to do something, as if a door would open and she would have been able to get out of there. She shivered; she had been in that cell for hours and her feet, legs and hands were now ice.

When they arrived at the Ministry, Auror Williamson, who didn’t particularly seem to like her, pushed her unceremoniously in there, and she heard him sniggering when the door closed at her back. Since that moment, nobody had come to see her or tell her what to do. Hours later, she was freezing and all she had to cover herself with was that damn dress. She didn’t even have any underwear, didn’t have shoes. She had been stupid the night before, but she would never imagine the people of Knockturn Alley to call the Ministry so promptly. She would have never thought to be in a cell at the Ministry that night.

A cold draught was coming from under the door. Pansy didn’t know the Ministry that well, but she imagined that the prisons were located in one of the very bottom floors, where the temperatures were the most unbearable. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t even known that the Ministry had prisons at all. She imagined that they were used for cases such as herself, when people couldn’t have been left out and about before a trial.

Every now and then, people walked in front of the door of her cell. Every now and then she heard a couple of voices greeting each other. Nobody came to see her, as if Borgin’s death was not interesting enough for them to take immediate action. Or as if they didn’t consider her case important at all. She should have felt outraged, but she didn’t care.

She had talked about Azkaban lightly as if it was a holiday destination. She had pretended not to be afraid, but now that she was locked in a cell without her wand she felt that maybe she had been too hurried in her judgement. She didn’t want to go to Azkaban. She didn’t want to go to Azkaban for a crime she hadn’t even committed.

What would have happened? She would have never sold Draco for her freedom, but she wondered if he would have stared at her as she was found guilty at his place and dragged away to her final destination. She lowered her head to her knees and rested her cheek there. For a spare moment she didn’t find his act as grandiose as she had found it the night before. It was only a bother now.

Finally, steps approached her cell and she heard the lock catching right before the door burst open. She raised her head to look at the two men who came in, and to her disappointment one of them was Williamson. She wondered when his shift would be over.

Williamson smirked at her as he walked to where she was sitting. He grabbed her arm with roughness and brought her to her feet. “Come on,” he barked unceremoniously as he dragged her effortlessly towards the door. “Time for a little chat.”

The thought of resisting him didn’t even cross Pansy’s mind as he guided her down a long and cold corridor. She felt the frosty and slightly damp uneven stone floor digging into her already freezing feet, increasing her discomfort. The other Auror trailed quietly behind them, but Pansy didn’t turn to look at him.

She stumbled a couple of times, but Williamson didn’t slow down, he only gripped her more forcefully around her arm. His fingers dug into her flesh like claws.

The minutes passed on so slowly that she had taken to counting her heartbeats just to make sure that time even passed at all, but finally he stopped in front of a door and pushed it open. Inside a small, rectangular room there was a table, two chairs, and nothing else. He dragged her to the chair on the other side of the table and shoved her in it. “Hands on the table,” he ordered. She complied and he pointed his wand to her wrists. “ _Incarcerous_ ,” he said, and she found her hands tightly secured to the table.

She kept her eyes on the table as he circled her and tutted. “Does it hurt?” he asked with a smirk in his voice.

It did, but Pansy was damned if she let him know.

His hand went to her hair as he pulled back her head to make her look at him. “When someone asks you something you should reply,” he hissed.

“Williamson!” thundered a voice from the doorway, and as soon as the name was spoken, Pansy felt her hair being released.

“Just teaching her some manners, Boss,” replied Williamson gleefully.

Pansy raised her eyes to look at Weasley, but the blue eyes of the wizard were fixed on Williamson. The other Auror at Weasley’s left, though, was looking at her with concerned eyes.

“Good,” growled Weasley, “now get out, I thought your shift ended two hours ago.”

He shrugged and walked past the two men, then before stepping out of the room he turned to glare at Pansy and finally disappeared in the corridor.

“Blimey,” muttered Weasley, shaking his head, “he’s out of control.” He glanced askew at Pansy, before closing the door partially. If he was trying to give them a bit of privacy, they should have walked away.

“He is out of control. Ever since his son was killed by that prostitute in Knockturn Alley,” agreed the Auror.

 “Poor fellow,” Weasley sighed, “and now every time we arrest a witch he thinks he has the right to take his anger out on her.”

“Only when it’s a young, pretty witch though,” the Auror corrected Weasley. “He was not interested in that old hag we brought here last month.”

Weasley snorted. “Hey, she isn’t that young,” he complained. “She’s my age.”

 “You are young, Boss,” he chuckled with an evident smile in his voice, and probably patting his shoulder in a gesture of friendly male comradery.

Weasley didn’t seem to like it. “Shall we tell Harry about his behaviour?” he asked the Auror, changing the subject.

“I believe we should, maybe he can convince him to go on an early retirement,” proposed the Auror.

Weasley snorted as if he found the idea impossible. “I’ll tell Harry, but when he is back from his holiday,” he agreed, opening the door again and walking towards the table, “he hasn’t had a decent holiday in years.” He took out a file from his robe and put it on the table. “Actually, I don’t think he’s ever had one,” he added thoughtfully.

The Auror nodded. “Do you need help here?”

Weasley looked at her briefly before turning to look at the man. “No,” he replied calmly, “I’m sure we can have a civil conversation without needing to take out our wands.” He chuckled softly.

Pansy bit her bottom lip to restrain an imprecation. She wanted to speak as little as possible to Weasley. Even though he wasn’t showing it, she knew that he was gloating inside for the fact that he had Pansy Parkinson tied up in front of him.

“I’ll see you at lunch then,” added the Auror.

Weasley nodded distractedly and sat down across from Pansy. He didn’t look at her as he opened the file that had her name on the cover. He waited until the door closed at his back before he spoke.

“Okay,” he let out, finally looking at her, “Pansy Borgin, I’m the Auror assigned to this case.”

Pansy darkened. “It’s Parkinson,” she corrected him, “and I don’t want you.”

Weasley raised his eyebrows. “Well, yes,” he replied, closing the file again, “I thought it was Parkinson too, last night, but can you see here?” He held the file in front of her eyes. “It says Borgin. Aren’t you married to him?”

“I  _was_ ,” she snapped curtly, “but he is dead, isn’t he?” She looked away from his freckled face. “And I don’t want you.”

Weasley took a deep breath. “Okay, listen to me,” he spoke in a very business-like way. “First of all, a friendly piece of advice: if you show yourself too keen on dissociating from your dead husband, you just increase the suspicion that you killed him,” he let her know. “And second, do you think I chose this case? I was unfortunate enough to be the one in charge when we got the Floo Call.” He leaned back on the chair and opened the file again. “Now,” he continued, “if you cooperate, this will only take a few minutes.”

Pansy rolled her eyes in annoyance at the fact that she was stuck with her former classmate, but nodded to let him know that she had understood.

“Right,” Weasley went on, taking a deep breath, “Pansy Borgin, you have been brought to the Ministry of Magic of the United Kingdom with the accusation of homicide.” He looked at her. “How do you plead?”

Pansy looked at him and swallowed. How could she reply? If she pleaded guilty she would earn herself a one-way ticket to Azkaban, if she pleaded not guilty, she would bring all accusations on someone else, and how long would it take them to find out that Draco was there too that night? “I don’t plead anything,” she replied dryly.

Weasley scratched his temple. “Sorry,” he murmured absentmindedly, “I thought you knew how this worked. I guess I’ve seen too many Muggle crime films with my wife.” He smiled softly. “You have to plead either guilty or not guilty.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t plead anything,” she repeated.

He tapped his fingers nervously on the file. “But you have to,” he grunted, “this is the first time that someone doesn’t plead anything!”

“Isn’t that your job?” she asked defiantly. “To either find me guilty or innocent?”

Weasley rolled his eyes and cursed under his breath as he wrote on the file that she didn’t plead anything, and Pansy was happy she had won the first argument.

“Right,” he replied, looking alternatively at the file and at her. “Here it says that you don’t have a defender. Would you like one or do you want to defend yourself?”

Pansy was good at talking, but she didn’t have a clue how a Hearing worked. “Is it expensive to have one?” she asked softly.

Weasley shook his head. “If you can’t afford one, you can have one from the Ministry,” he informed her, then added softly, “Would you like one?”

Pansy nodded. She was sure that it would have been a crappy defender, but a crappy defender was always better than no defender at all.

Weasley scribbled something on her file and then put his feather down. “Good,” he murmured, “now, there will be three informed witnesses that will speak after you.” He looked at her. “I’m going to go first, then there’s Mrs Astoria Malfoy and finally Mr Draco Malfoy.”

Pansy’s lips parted in surprise, her eyes widened in shock. “What?” she murmured. She tried to bring her hands to her mouth to contain her shock, but she only pulled against her restrains.

Weasley nodded. “I was the one who received the Floo Call and who was in charge of the operation,” he told her, “Mrs Malfoy was the one who alerted us, and Malfoy was the one to whom you directed your message.”

Pansy hated the fact that her face must have looked terrified and shocked to Weasley.  _The_   _message_. The letter she had written to Draco after she had Stunned Borgin. Why did she do it? Why did she have to write to him? No! Why didn’t Draco Vanish it? Why had he been so careless? Was that the reason why she was there? Because Astoria had alerted the Ministry? She felt her anger boil in her guts as she thought of that spiteful woman. “Astoria alerted you?” she asked in a hiss.

“Yes,” confirmed Weasley slowly, probably sensing her rage, “but I’m afraid we can’t discuss this kind of information right now.”

“It’s my trial, Weasley!” she cried.

“And I’m already giving you too much information,” he replied flatly. “Now, can we proceed?”

Pansy gritted her teeth, she tried to stretch her fingers to get a hold of the file and see what it said, but only strained her muscles and had to stop.

Weasley snorted as he pulled the file towards himself. “Now, we used the Reverse Spell Effect on your wand,” he let her know, “and the Killing Curse was not amongst your last spells.” He darkened. “That doesn’t mean that you haven’t used it, though. I know you are not stupid, you might have just cast a lot of spells after you’ve killed him.”

Pansy lowered her eyes. Would they test Draco’s wand as well? Would he know that he had to do what Weasley had just accused her to have done? If only she could have owled him… But that would have been simply so stupid.

“Now,” continued Weasley, snapping her out of her thoughts, “I suppose we have addressed every point.” He used his feather to check the file again. “One last thing.” He looked at her dress and at her hands whose fingers were turning bluish from the cold and the restrains. “Do you need anything from your house?”

Pansy’s lips parted in surprise. She hadn’t expected that question at all.

Weasley seemed to notice her shock for he felt the urge to explain, “The cells are at the bottom floor of the Ministry where there are the coldest temperatures, and since it’s only a temporary accommodation, we don’t offer any kind of service such as a uniform or shoes or other things.” He bent over the table to look at her legs, and she shifted nervously under his gaze, rubbing her feet together. “And I couldn’t help noticing that you are underdressed for this place.” He looked back up at her. “Do you need anything? Shoes? A change of clothes? Anything in particular?” He closed the file and took a small piece of parchment to write a list. “Usually, the relatives bring a change of clothes to our inmates, but in your case we can have an Intern to pick something for you.”

Pansy nodded quickly. “Shoes,” she blurted out, “and underwear.” She saw Weasley flushing at that as he scribbled quickly on the parchment. “And warm clothes.” She sighed. “Anything, just take anything warm from my wardrobe.”

Weasley nodded as he took notes. “Are you cold?” he asked her practically, looking at her. “I can cast a Warming Charm on you.”

Pansy lowered her eyes. Oh, the shame of having Weasley to be nice to her! She just wanted to tell him to sod off, that she didn’t need his help, that he shouldn’t have offered to help her because they were not friends. He was an Auror and she was a murder, and he didn’t have to pretend that he wanted to make her feel comfortable. “I don’t need you to do anything at—hey! Don’t touch me, Weasley!” she screeched as his warm hands felt her forearms and fingers as if to take her temperature.

“You are frozen,” he informed her sensibly, before pointing his wand at her and muttering a Warming Charm.

Pansy felt a warm breeze engulfing her and suddenly she could feel her extremities again. She wriggled her toes and revelled in the wonderful sensation of managing to move every single inch of her body without being in pain. She sighed in relief, and when she looked back at Weasley she was horrified to find a satisfied smirk on his face. “Wipe that smile off your face, Weasley,” she muttered, “I was just fine.”

Weasley shrugged but his smile didn’t falter. “Next time you are a piece of ice, I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied carelessly. He stood up and gathered the file, the feather and the parchment with the list of things that she wanted in his hands. “An Auror will come to bring you back to your cell,” he told her, “you’ll be served two warm meals each day.” He looked at her, frowning slightly. “Have they already fed you today?”

She shook her head softly.

“I’ll solicit them,” he added distractedly. “In case you’ll be found not guilty, you will have to pay for the food upon your releasing.” He looked at her. “Any questions?”

Thousands, all concerning Astoria and that message that she had sent to Draco. “When is my Hearing?” she enquired. How long was she supposed to be there, that was what she meant.

“Right,” mumbled Weasley, opening the file and skimming through the text to search for the information. “Next Monday,” he informed her, “at ten in the morning.”

She nodded. What was the day? It was still early in the week, she groaned silently. A whole week in there awaited her. Another week in prison, even though this was a different prison where at least nobody wanted to torture her.

“So, okay,” continued Weasley, snapping her out of her thoughts. “I’ll see you later, I guess.”

She didn’t reply, she didn’t nod. She just stared at him as he walked towards the door and opened it. He didn’t close it at his back, but walked away, disappearing in the corridor.

“Savage, can you bring Mrs Borgin back to her cell and make sure that her meal gets delivered, please?” she heard Weasley saying, and soon an Auror that she had already seen somewhere walked in there and gently walked her back to her cell.

***

Draco stared blankly at the Daily Prophet that his father had passed him during breakfast. His eyes wide and his mouth hanging open in shock as he read the title that took most of the first page.

> _Young Wife Arrested for the Murder of Her Husband_

Under the title, a moving picture of Pansy in her teens smiled at the reader, next to it a small writing said that it was ‘archive material’. Draco swallowed hard, only to find no saliva in his mouth.

They had arrested Pansy.

They had arrested Pansy for a crime she hadn’t even committed. How did they get to her so quickly? Was she actually right? Were people in Knockturn Alley that quick to call the Ministry? He thought she had overreacted when she had pushed him away, that it was just the shock talking, but now he was glad she did.

He shook his head. No, he was not glad! How could he be glad? Anything that would have happened now would not have a happy ending for him. She either told them the truth and then he would have been arrested and sent to Azkaban, or she didn’t and would have been incarcerated herself at his place. Either way, Draco would lose something, either his freedom or her.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” asked Astoria, walking into the dining room with a smile upon her face.

Draco didn’t reply to her, and he was surprised to not hear a response from his father either.

As she sat down across from him, Draco started to read the article.

> _Pansy Borgin had been arrested last night with the accusation of having murdered her husband, the well-known Erebus Borgin, owner of Borgin and Burkes at 13B, Knockturn Alley. Proper investigations are being conducted at this very moment, but the Ministry has released an early reconstruction of the events that took place last night. Even though we would like to remind you that these are only conjectures so far, we can assume that all hypothesis will be validated at the end of the investigations. Around eleven p.m., Mrs Borgin had first Stunned and then used the Killing Curse on the body of her unconscious husband. A team of Aurors, led by Deputy Head Auror Ronald Weasley, arrived a few minutes after the crime had been carried out, just in time to prevent the young woman from disposing of the body. The victim’s naked body was dumped on the bed of the couple while a pile of Dark Artefacts from the shop were found in the room, probably used as torture devices. Nobody else was found in the flat. Mrs Borgin has released no statement to this time. The trial will take place next Monday at ten a.m., the Wizengamot will be presided by the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and the position of Chief Warlock will be held by Elphias Doge._

Draco lowered the Daily Prophet on the table.

He had spent the worst night of his life. Every time he tried to close his eyes to sleep, Borgin’s contorted face filled his visions and Pansy’s painful screams filled his ears. And every time he woke up with a jump and cold sweat that ran down from his hairline. But when morning came, he felt his heart swell at the thought that he would have seen Pansy that day. He had promised her to go to Knockturn Alley to meet her and he couldn’t wait.

And now… Now nothing made sense anymore. She had been arrested because of him. He had gone to her to try to convince her not to do kill Borgin and instead he had done it himself. But Pansy was screaming… and he was torturing her with a cruelty in his eyes worthy of his aunt… and Draco couldn’t resist. He couldn’t have Stunned him and then left her to deal with the aftermath, with Borgin’s vendetta.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” chimed Astoria from across the table. “You look positively ghastly.”

Draco looked up at her. “And you look positively cheerful,” he replied tonelessly.

She shrugged lightly. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

Draco opened his mouth to tell her that no, it wasn’t, but at that moment his mother walked in. “Post for Mr and Mrs Draco Malfoy,” she announced, handing Draco the letters before she sat at the table and poured herself a strong cup of tea.

Absentmindedly, Draco handed the letter addressed to Astoria to her. He turned his own over and saw that it came from the Ministry of Magic. Not that that was uncommon, they received multiple letters per week from the Ministry. Most of the time, they asked for donations.

He broke the wax seal and took out the letter as Astoria did the same on the other side of the table. He couldn’t help noticing how silent the room had grown. The letter was short.

> _Dear Mr Draco Malfoy,_
> 
> _You have been summoned as an informed witness at the trial of Mrs Pansy Borgin against her husband Mr Erebus Borgin, at the Ministry of Magic of the United Kingdom, Courtroom Ten, on Monday at ten a.m. Attendance is compulsory._
> 
> _Please reply to this letter to let us know that you have received the summoning._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Elphias Doge_
> 
> _Wizengamot Chief Warlock_

Draco felt all the air he had in his lungs being knocked out of his chest. The article didn’t report that Pansy had said anything, how did they know…? What did they know? Informed witness? He had to go there and testify against her? Either that or… confess. Confess his crime and be sent to Azkaban. Forever.  _How did they know_  ? He gritted his teeth.  _Pansy_  ,  _of course,_ he thought bitterly. How could she tell them? She had insisted for him to go away… she said she wanted to protect him… no, she just wanted to stab him in the back when he didn’t expect it.

“What is it, Astoria dear?” asked Narcissa gently.

Draco raised his eyes to look at his wife and saw that she was still staring at the letter with her eyes wide. When she looked up she was very careful not to meet his questioning gaze. She smiled stiffly. “Oh, nothing important,” she replied, folding the letter, “I’ve been summoned for Pansy’s trial.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Why?” he asked without understanding. Had Pansy wanted to stab not only his back but also that of his wife’s?

Narcissa snorted. “One tries to be a good citizen,” she complained, “and that’s how they repay her.” She shook her head in annoyance. “By having to go testifying all the way up to London.”

Draco’s eyes wandered the room. From his mother’s annoyed expression, to Astoria’s slightly flushed cheeks, to his father who seemed to be angered to the point where he couldn’t speak.

Finally, Draco looked back at Astoria. “What did you do?” he whispered in an angry hiss.

***

When the door of her cell opened, Pansy thought she had miscalculated the hour and wondered how it could have been already time for another meal. Not that she would have complained, but she was still satiated from the first one of the day, and it would have taken her longer to finish the second one. Whoever came to collect her plates would have had to wait for her.

To her surprise, though, it wasn’t the young, freckled Intern that had brought her meals – and her clothes – for the whole week who entered. It was Savage, with his gentle face and his tidy Auror uniform.

“Mrs Borgin,” he called her, walking towards her. “You have a visitor.”

Pansy stood up from the bench. “A visitor?” she enquired as Savage made her turn and magically tied her hands behind her back.

He grabbed her arm gently and nodded. “Your defender,” he explained, “he would like to talk to you before the trial.” He guided her out of the cell and again towards that little room where she had had the conversation with Weasley the first day she was there. When he pushed the door open, a small old man was already sitting inside. He raised his eyes from the papers he was examining and looked at her. A bright smile stretched his lips wide. He stood up in a gesture of politeness as Savage made her seat.

“Mrs Borgin,” the old man greeted her, stretching a hand towards her, “finally, what a pleasure!”

Savage untied her wrists and she made a gesture as if to shake his hand, but the Auror caught her arm and quickly tied her hands on the table. “No touching,” he reminded them curtly.

The old man withdrew his hand, slightly embarrassed. “Of course, of course,” he muttered as he sat opposite to her.

“If you have any problems,” Savage explained to the man, “send sparks.”

The man nodded, beaming as the Auror left the room. “I don’t suppose you know who I am, do you, Mrs Borgin?” asked the man with a smile upon his face.

Pansy shrugged a shoulder. “My defender?” she asked tentatively.

The man chuckled. “Yes, yes, indeed,” he replied amused, “that is quite clever. I can see we’ll get on well.”

Pansy was unsure if that would be important at all. As long as he defended her, she didn’t particularly care if they got along or not.

“I’m Mr Bolden,” he explained, “Mr Malfoy’s legal representative.”

Pansy stared at the man. She remembered that name, Draco had told her about him. He was the one in charge of the Artefact Operation, the one with which she had helped Draco years before. She had never seen him, but she remembered the name. “Did the Ministry assign you to my case?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No,” he replied, “I’m here by request of young Mr Malfoy.”

Pansy bit her bottom lip. Was that how he showed her his support? By granting her the services of his legal representative? “I’m afraid I don’t have enough money to pay for your services,” she informed him bitterly.

He chuckled. “Oh, nonsense,” he replied, “Mr Malfoy is paying me.”

Pansy sighed in relief. At least she could accept that, since she was imprisoned in his place.

“Now,” he continued, lowering his eyes on her file, “I was having a look at your documents and it says here that you don’t want to plead anything. Is that correct?”

Pansy nodded resolutely.

He cocked his head. “Yes, yes,” he murmured, “it’s unusual, certainly, but I don’t think there are any laws against that.” He ticked her statement on the paper. “Mr Malfoy would like you to know that he wants you to plead not guilty, though.”

Pansy’s heart skipped a beat. Draco wanted her to tell the truth? She smiled softly, her eyes widening. “Really?” she asked in a whisper.

The man nodded. “Indeed,” he replied, “you see, if you plead guilty, you will be sent to Azkaban before the end of next week; but if you don’t plead anything it will be clear that you are protecting somebody.” He looked meaningfully at her, and Pansy wondered how much he actually knew. “And we don’t want that.” Apparently a lot. “So, the only viable option is for you to plead not guilty. The Wizengamot is expecting that anyway.”

So Draco Malfoy was protecting himself, not her. How stupid she was!

“Shall I change the statement to not guilty?” he asked her.

She bit her bottom lip before nodding. After all, even though she wasn’t sure, they could imprison her for her involvement in the murder if they thought that she was protecting someone.

“Good,” he smiled. “So, have they already explained to you everything about the trial?”

“Vaguely,” she replied, remembering what Weasley had told her.

He nodded. “The trial will start at ten in the morning,” he started to explain, “the Minister for Magic himself will preside the Wizengamot, while Mr Doge will hold the position of Chief Warlock.” He smiled softly. “I’m afraid Mr Shacklebolt will be the one we have to convince of your innocence, because Mr Doge has a soft spot for young girls.” He winked at her. “He always thinks that they are much more naïve than they actually are and never finds them guilty.”

Pansy nodded, she didn’t know what kind of help Doge’s judgement would have been to her. None at all, if all clues led to her.

“You are going to be the first one to speak,” he continued, “then I’ll plead your case in front of the Wizengamot.” He drew out of his robe a feather and a small ink bottle and prepared to write. “What can you tell me about your relationship with Mr Borgin?”

She couldn’t tell him anything that he would have found as a possible reason for her to kill him. She certainly didn’t want to tell him about the baby, nor the tortures, nor the way he treated her. She didn’t want anybody to know that. Especially not a courtroom full of respectable and successful wizards and witches, along with Draco, Astoria, and Weasley. “It was a normal relationship,” she replied flatly, “we were just like any other married couple.”

He nodded and seemed satisfied. “Good,” he said, “we don’t want you to let them know that you had all the reasons in the world to get rid of him.” He looked at her with piercing black eyes. “And we certainly don’t want to bring Mr Malfoy into this.”

Again, Pansy wondered how much he knew, and again she came to the conclusion that the answer was far too much. She questioned whether Draco had told him their situation to help him pleading her case, or if he had told him everything even before that.

“Which is a pity, really,” he continued, “we could have constructed a very good story around the fact that Mr Borgin had found out about your infidelity and tried to kill you. Then it would have really been a justifiable homicide.” He sighed, as if to say that the easy way out had been forbidden to him. “So, what happened?” he asked her. “That night, I mean.”

Pansy frowned. “I think you already know,” she replied coldly, “especially if you’ve talked to Mr Malfoy.”

“Indeed, indeed,” he drawled, “but we can’t tell them exactly how things went, right?” He raised his eyebrows. “I have more than one client to protect here.”

Pansy had a feeling that this man had a predilection for the client who was paying him though. “Then what should I say?” she asked heatedly.

He ignored her tone. “I think we have two possibilities, here,” he replied. “You can either refuse to reply to any of their questions, even though I feel obliged to warn you that this behaviour notoriously angers the members of the Wizengamot and usually leads to a sentence in prison. Or you can use the excuse that that night you have been Confounded by an intruder.” He nodded encouragingly. “After all, I’m sure that a man like Mr Borgin had a lot of enemies, and it wouldn’t be difficult to imagine that one of them had introduced himself into your house and killed him as he cast you under a Confundus Charm.” He cocked his head and checked the papers. “That would explain why you were wearing a dress in the middle of the night, and why Mr Borgin’s last spell was the Cruciatus Curse.”

Pansy nodded slowly. After all, that was almost exactly what had happened. Almost.

“Good,” he repeated gleefully, “I see we agree. Now, after me, it’s going to be Auror Weasley’s turn, and I’m afraid we can’t tell him what to say. I don’t think, though, that the information in his possession will be of some relevance.” He took a deep breath. “Same thing goes for Mrs Astoria Malfoy.”

Pansy winced at the name. If they let her anywhere near Astoria in the courtroom, she would have given them a good reason to send her to Azkaban. “What about Mr Malfoy?” she asked bitterly.

“Mr Malfoy had never set foot in your flat the night of the murder,” he replied icily, “he had never replied to your message and had never left the Manor.”

Pansy raised her chin haughtily. “It seems that Mr Malfoy has taken good care of saving his own skin,” she growled sulkily. 

“You’ll understand, Mrs Borgin, that his position can’t allow him to get exposed to such a scandal,” he told her almost soothingly.

Pansy glared at him. “While I’m expendable.”

He smiled. “Most certainly not,” he replied nonchalantly, “but your situation is quite different. And you were found on the crime scene, brandishing a wand. I’m afraid we would need a miracle to let you come out unscathed by this situation.”

Pansy gritted her teeth. She didn’t even know what miracles were. She had gone all her adult life jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. If there was someone dispensing miracles up there, he surely didn’t seem to want to give one to Pansy anytime soon.

“I think we are all caught up here, aren’t we?” Mr Bolden finally asked. “I’ll see you on Monday morning, if you don’t have any other questions for me.”

Pansy shook her head, lowering her eyes. Whatever she did, she was in this man’s hands as well as her own. All she wanted at that very moment, though, was to keep away from Azkaban. Her heart skipped a beat every time she thought of that place and how likely it was now for her to be sent there.

He stretched a hand towards her, but withdrew almost immediately. “Oh, right,” he muttered, “no touching.” He laughed. “I will see you on Monday, Mrs Borgin.” He stood up and smiled. “Have a nice weekend,” he added without thinking.

Pansy raised her head once in reply, but she didn’t say a word. She was scared of going to prison, and resentful of Draco for having sent a man that wanted only to clear the Malfoy name without caring for her freedom. She leaned against the back of the chair and stretched her tied up hands to try and ease their soreness. She just wanted to go back to her cell and sleep until Monday morning and then sleep through the trial as well and wake up only when the verdict was reached.

“Well, if it isn’t our little murderer that we have here…”

Pansy’s heart sunk in her chest as Williamson appeared at the door.

***

The members of the Wizengamot were all wearing plum coloured robes, all except for Kingsley Shacklebolt and Elphias Doge, who were wearing black. They were all sitting in their high seats, in a wide semi-circle, opposite to the seats occupied by the witnesses, journalists and some other busybodies who just wanted to get a look at the young girl who had killed her old and ugly husband.

Draco was sitting in the front row, Astoria at his left. Mr Bolden was sitting on a wooden chair in front of him, and there was another chair with heavy, leather straps on the armrests that awaited the defendant and that faced towards the high seat where Kingsley Shacklebolt and Elphias Doge were sitting. The two men were chatting and laughing and Draco felt the urge to tell them to shut up, that now was not the time for such shenanigans, that his Pansy was going to be put in front of them and they better clear her of all imputations because… she was not guilty.

“They are late,” chirped Astoria, rolling her eyes. “We give them hundreds of Galleons each year and they can’t even start a trial on time.”

Draco didn’t even look at her. “Shut it,” he admonished her curtly. He had barely talked to her since she had confessed what she had done. He hadn’t even looked at her, he hadn’t touched her and had tried to shut out the sound of her voice whenever she opened her mouth. He had slept in the nursery for the whole week, conjuring a bed out of thin air to stay away from his wife. He had enjoyed sleeping with Scorpius and now that he had started to say his very first words – to everybody’s astonishment his first word had been ‘dada’ – Draco enjoyed his son’s company ten times more than that of any other member of that family.

Draco’s eyes wandered the courtroom. The members of the Wizengamot looked mostly relaxed, as if they knew that this was going to be a particularly easy case. He felt only disgust and loathing for them. He craned his neck to look at the people sitting behind him and was surprised to see a lot of faces that he recognised. Blaise was amongst them, looking slightly disconsolate to be there. A few seats down from him, Millicent was looking anxiously at the chair where Pansy would sit. She seemed to be nervous, but at the same time Draco noticed how her eyes kept reverting on a particular tall and handsome wizard a few rows to her left. He shook his head in disgust. What a friend!

As Draco’s eyes kept wandering, he caught glimpse of Daphne, his sister-in-law. She seemed to be particularly pleased to be there, as if she were going to participate in a show that had received some great reviews. Next to her, instead of her husband, there was Theodore Nott, who seemed to be there just out of curiosity. He was relieved to not be able to spot Tracey or Goyle, at least they didn’t take the trial as a show. He also saw some girls from back at Hogwarts. Lavender Brown and Padma Patil, for example, who were busy chatting and smiling.

At least Potter was nowhere to be seen, but Draco knew that it was only because the Head Auror was on holiday. He was grateful for that, the thought of Weasley having to follow her case already made him sick.

Finally, Percy Weasley walked into the room and the voices quietened, he took his seat as Court Scribe and announced that the trial would start.

Draco held his breath as he waited for her to come out.

***

Pansy wore the most elegant dress the Intern had brought her from her house for that day. She had been granted a shower that morning and even though a tray filled with food had been laid on a table in her cell, she hadn’t touched anything. Her stomach was in knots as she thought of what was about to happen. She couldn’t sit either, so she just paced in her cell, waiting for someone to come and take her to the courtroom. She fiddled her hands incessantly in her lap as she walked from wall to wall and then back.

She stopped only when she heard a big, rusty key being turned in the lock of the door. She looked anxiously as it was pushed open and Weasley walked in, a calm expression on his face.

“Are you ready?” he asked her gravely. His tone made her nervous, more nervous than she already was. Why so solemn? Was he worried for her? He shouldn’t have cared about her, she was just his job. The fact that he seemed to care made her uneasy.

Pansy opened her mouth, but to her shock she found that she was unable to talk. She would have to regain her composure.  _Too bad I am not a Malfoy_ , she thought bitterly,  _Malfoys always know how to behave_. She nodded in response to Weasley.

Weasley nodded back. He walked towards her, grabbed her hands and brought them to her back where he magically secured them. She let him do it without letting out a single sound, without moving nor twitching her hands when the magic ropes strangled her wrists. She didn’t look up at him when he came to stand next to her and grab her upper arm gently. “Come,” he ordered as he led her out of the cell.

They walked for long, interminable minutes. Their steps echoed in the empty corridors and on the stairs of the Ministry as Pansy was brought in front of the people who would decide her fate. She felt her heart beating more and more furiously in her chest as she neared the place. Finally, Weasley stopped in front of a big, wooden door and let her arm go.

“Don’t be scared,” he whispered sympathetically.

She darkened instantaneously and shook her head. “I’m not scared.” Pansy was outraged, but was crestfallen to hear her voice come out heavy with fear.

Weasley nodded and raised his wand. “You have to walk in front of me,” he told her. “I’ll keep my wand pointed at you, but it’s a mere formality.” She wondered why he was explaining this to her. “Your seat is the one in the middle of the room, the one facing Shacklebolt and Doge. You can’t miss it.”

Pansy nodded and swallowed, only to find her mouth dry.

Weasley knocked on the door and someone opened it from the inside. Suddenly, Pansy felt the urge to run away. To go back to her cell and never come out. She would have preferred to be locked in a cell with Williamson at that very moment, rather than have to go in there to face a whole Wizengamot who certainly thought her to be guilty.

“Walk,” ordered Weasley as he poked his wand in her back.

She took a sharp breath and stepped towards the door. To her surprise, the courtroom was incredibly quiet. She kept her eyes on the floor in front of her, paying attention not to make eye-contact with anybody at all. Despite not looking up, though, she could feel hundreds of eyes on her. She looked in front of her and saw the chair that Weasley had told her about. It was the only empty chair in the centre of the room. Mr Bolden was occupying the other one. She walked towards it and turned to sit.

Weasley released her hands and she brought them forward. She grabbed the armrests and sat on the chair. Suddenly, leather straps closed around her wrists and secured her hands in place. She wriggled her fingers to test the bounds and was unsurprised to find them particularly tight.

She dared to look up and saw a number of known faces. Draco sat in the first row with his spiteful wife next to him, but also Blaise and Millie and some other people from back at school were there. She was careful not to look anybody in the eyes, always staring at their noses or foreheads. Some flashes blinded her and she was aware of many journalists taking pictures in the room.

Finally, Shacklebolt stood up and cleared his voice.

“Disciplinary hearing of the twentieth of January 2007,” he started, “into offences committed by Pansy Borgin, resident at number 13B, Knockturn Alley, London. Interrogators: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic; Elphias Doge, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and Chief Warlock. Court Scribe, Percy Ignatius Weasley.” He looked down at Pansy and raised his eyebrows. “Mrs Borgin had been accused of murdering her husband,” he announced. “How would the defendant like to proceed?”

Pansy swallowed. She was the defendant. Was she supposed to reply? She opened her mouth, but Mr Bolden beat her to it.

“She would like to answer any questions that the Interrogators might have for her,” he informed them, standing up, “and then I will plead her case.”

Shacklebolt nodded and Mr Bolden sat back down. “Mrs Borgin,” he began, looking down at her. “Why don’t you start by telling us what happened that night?”

Pansy took a deep breath. She had to remember what Mr Bolden had told her. She had to lie. She was an excellent liar, she would have no problems at all. “I don’t remember very well,” she started, and was happy to hear her voice being quite firm. “I am afraid it is a bit of a blur.”

Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows at her statement. “What do you remember, then?” he asked curtly.

Pansy could hear Percy Weasley scribbling every single word down. “I remember we went to bed,” she replied, pretending to think hard, “I fell asleep quickly and only woke up when I heard spells flying over my head.”

Shacklebolt looked already supremely unconvinced by her story. “Did you and Mr Borgin engage in any kind of sexual activity previous to fall asleep?” he asked, his voice absolutely cold.

Pansy couldn’t see how that was important. She felt her cheeks burning slightly in shame. “No,” she lied again. She glanced briefly at Mr Bolden and saw him looking rather stiffly at her.

“Then would you care to explain why Mr Borgin’s body was found naked and with evident signs of recent intercourse?” he asked her sharply.

Pansy’s lips parted in surprise. Was she really that bad of a liar? How could she have already contradicted herself? “I… I said it’s a bit of a blur,” she stammered, but Shacklebolt’s attention was already diverted on Ronald Weasley.

“Has she been checked by a Healer when she had been brought to the Ministry?” he asked the Auror.

Weasley flushed slightly. “I’m afraid not,” he replied sheepishly.

Shacklebolt nodded, looking back at Pansy. “So you don’t remember if you had lain with your husband or not?” he questioned her seriously.

Pansy wanted to scream that that was not important. She wanted to know how such a detail would have helped them to incriminate her, but naturally that was such a stupid question. She knew perfectly well that they were just trying to catch as many mistakes she made in her story as possible to discredit her, and they were already succeeding so well, she was starting to panic.

“Yes,” she answered quickly, “I don’t remember.”

“How could that be, Mrs Borgin?” he asked her. “Were you under the influence of some potion? Maybe an illegal one?”

“No!” she replied forcefully. “I… I must have been hit by a Confundus Charm,” she stuttered, remembering what Mr Bolden had told her.

Shacklebolt raised his chin. “And how would you explain that the last spell your husband had cast was the Cruciatus Curse?”

Pansy’s face lit up, she knew that answer, it was easy. “He used it against the man who killed him,” she replied, “I didn’t see his face, he had a hood, but my husband fought bravely before he was killed.”

The Minister for Magic looked coldly at her. “I thought you didn’t remember what happened,” he pointed out coldly.

Pansy’s lips parted in surprise, and she was left with no air in her lungs. Merlin, she was bad at this game. So bad, she felt like she was going to lose. To lose her freedom, her life, everything. “No… no…” she muttered, utterly lost. “I don’t, I just… I think… I think this is what must have happened…”

“And what about the message that you wrote to Mr Draco Malfoy?” he continued, raising the piece of parchment where she had written her message. “You seemed pretty determined to kill your husband, didn’t you?”

She tried to smile, but her face only screwed up in fear. “I… I was just joking,” she murmured crestfallen, “I would never… I am not a murder…”

“I wonder how you could have written such a clear letter if you were under the Confundus Charm, Mrs Borgin,” he tutted thoughtfully.

“That was before…” she whispered, her eyes wide, “before the charm…”

The Minister raised an eyebrow. “Did you have a quarrel with your husband, Mrs Borgin?” he asked coldly. “I seem to remember that you said that you just went to bed.” He looked at Percy Weasley. “Is that correct?” he asked.

“Yes, Minister,” replied the Court Scribe, checking the parchment.

Shacklebolt turned to look at her, his dark eyes cold. “I hope you understand, Mrs Borgin, that this letter alone is proof enough for us to sentence you to a lifetime in Azkaban,” he reminded her.

Pansy opened her mouth again, and again no sound exited. She felt defeated. Stupid, beaten, hopeless. The thought of having to go to Azkaban was now weighing on her shoulders like a boulder. A murmur of agreement at what Shacklebolt had said ran through the members of the Wizengamot.

“I think I don’t have any other questions,” finished Shacklebolt as Pansy looked up at him with big, scared eyes. “Elphias?” he asked, looking at the old wizard at his right.

Elphias Doge looked down at Pansy with compassionate eyes. She hated that he felt sorry for her. She would have hexed his eyes shut if she only had her wand with her.

“Mrs Borgin,” began the Chief Warlock with a soft smile, “did you love your husband?”

Pansy’s sight blurred and her head spun. What kind of question was that? Crazy, old man, what did he want to know that for? How was that relevant? He was dead, what difference did it make? “He was my husband,” she replied softy, deciding that that was good enough.

“Yes,” continued Doge gently, “but did you love him?”

Pansy looked away from Doge. “I… I…” but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. She would choose Azkaban over saying those words. The courtroom was as silent as if it was empty; everybody was waiting for her reply, but they would have to wait until they became old and died, because it would never come.

“I have no other questions,” murmured Doge after a good few minutes.

Pansy closed her eyes and swallowed. She had screwed it up so badly that she was afraid not even Mr Bolden would be able to save her from prison.

“Then,” proclaimed Mr Bolden, standing up, “without further ado, I must take upon me the task to clarify my client’s statements.”

Pansy looked at him as he walked to the centre of the courtroom. He was smiling affably as he looked from Shacklebolt to Doge to the other members of the Wizengamot.

“Minister for Magic,” he addressed him grandiosely, “Chief Warlock, Members of the Wizengamot. I would like to bring to your attention a detail that might have been overlooked during the investigations on this case.” He cleared his voice. “As it is stated in Mrs Borgin’s file,” he continued, “Auror Weasley and his team arrived on the crime scene more than forty minutes after the untimely death of Mr Borgin.” He pointed a calloused finger towards Pansy. “How could an intelligent witch such as Mrs Borgin have waited such a long time to get rid of the body? And above all, why would she have written a confession and sent it to Mr Malfoy?”

“That is a good question,” complimented Elphias Doge, looking hopefully at him.

“It is indeed, Chief Warlock,” replied Mr Bolden gravely, “and my answer is that Mrs Borgin did not want to kill her husband. She was frustrated with him and probably their wedding wasn’t as serene as most people imagined it to be, but that very statement, so explicitly written, meant only that she needed a way to vent her feelings.” He looked at Shacklebolt. “A murderer would never leave such a blatant clue.”

“An expert murderer perhaps,” pointed out Shacklebolt thoughtfully, “but someone who kills for the first time in a transport of anger can make the most obvious mistakes.”

“Still,” continued Mr Bolden, unfazed by Shacklebolt’s rejection of his reasoning, “Mrs Borgin’s wand has been tested and there was no sign of the Killing Curse.”

Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows. “That doesn’t mean anything, Bolden,” he reminded him gruffly. “She could have cast as many spells as necessary to make the Priori Incantatem inefficient.”

“I’m sorry Minister, but you just said that what she had committed was caused by a transport of anger, how could she have been so lucid as to erase the traces of the Killing Curse from her wand?” asked Mr Bolden sensibly.

Shacklebolt cocked his head. “She clearly didn’t do it on purpose if that’s the case,” he replied calmly, “either that or she simply did kill him intentionally.” He looked at Pansy and she stared back at him with her eyes wide. “Tell me who else could have killed Mr Borgin, Mr Bolden.”

“Anybody,” replied Mr Bolden brightly, “Mr Borgin wasn’t particularly loved. He was feared, surely, but not loved. I’m sure many people could have introduced themselves in their house and killed him.” He nodded forcefully. “The flat didn’t even have Anti-Apparition wards in place.”

The Minister looked irritated at him. “Thank you, Mr Bolden,” he grunted, “I think we have heard enough. You surely have given us something to think about.”

Mr Bolden bowed slightly and flashed a small smile to Pansy as he went back to his seat. Apparently, he thought it had gone well. Pansy couldn’t tell. Shacklebolt seemed particularly biased towards her, as if he had no doubts that she was Mr Borgin’s murderer.

The Minster stood up. “We would like to take a break before we listen to the witnesses,” he announced to the members of the Wizengamot. A murmur of agreement echoed in the room, and many people, including Shacklebolt and Doge, stood up and walked towards the door.

Weasley made his way towards Pansy. He pointed his wand at her wrists and the restrains came undone around her skin. “You can stand up and walk if you want,” he told her gently as she rubbed her wrists and closed and opened her fingers. She raised her eyes to look at him and saw that his wand was still pointed towards her. “Sorry, just a—”

“—formality, I know,” she muttered.

Weasley took a deep breath. “You can stand up and stretch your legs,” he repeated.

She shook her head. “No, thank you,” she muttered darkly, “I don’t want to parade like an animal in a cage.”

Weasley nodded softly. She was glad he understood. She didn’t want to look up and maybe meet the eyes of someone she knew, but she couldn’t resist. She raised her head and looked towards Draco.

He was staring at her and when their eyes met, she saw the breath catching in his chest with a slight jolt of his muscles. She tried to look as impassive as possible, but she was sure that her eyes alone were showing many more emotions than she had wanted, because Draco’s expression changed slowly as he looked at her. Suddenly his eyes filled with pity and with – what Pansy convinced herself it was – longing to come closer to her. She shook her head softly and looked away, the painful throbbing in her heart making her unable to keep staring at him.

“When does the trial finish?” asked Pansy, looking at her red wrists.

“It won’t be long,” Weasley reassured her. “Probably half an hour, forty minutes top.”

Pansy nodded.

“They’re coming back,” announced Weasley, looking towards the door. “Put your hands on the armrests.”

***

Draco swallowed hard. Pansy was sitting on a high chair, her feet dangling as if she was a child, her hands bound as if she was a murderer, her expression scared as if she already knew that she was going to Azkaban.

Her interrogation had been a disaster and somehow, Draco didn’t think that Mr Bolden’s defence had gone too well either. Sure, Shacklebolt had seemed interested in what he had to say, but he didn’t look convinced about her innocence. And now things could only get worse.

He shook his head bitterly. Had he not left the letter behind, had he Vanished it or brought it with him, he wouldn’t be sitting there, looking at Pansy as she was humiliated in front of all these people. It was all his fault. He should have imagined that Astoria wouldn’t think twice before rummaging through his stuff and then selling Pansy to the Ministry like she did.

Draco decided that if Pansy was sent to Azkaban, he would kill Astoria and join her. Maybe he could ask for a cell next to hers and they would talk through the walls. It was still a less stomach-churning thought than thinking that she would be imprisoned in his place. He clenched his jaw. He wouldn’t let them. If they came to the conclusion that she was guilty… he would confess. There! In front of everybody. He didn’t care what his father had told Bolden to do. He didn’t care if he spent the rest of his life in prison, as long as she didn’t.

“We will listen to the first witness,” announced Shacklebolt from his seat, “Auror Weasley, please come standing in the middle of the courtroom.”

Draco stared as Weasley made his way to the centre of the room. He was looking at Shacklebolt seriously, and Draco noticed that he didn’t feel anything for him. He seemed to be gentle enough with Pansy, and for once he didn’t hate him, though he didn’t like him either. He was just another person in the room. Another informed witness, like himself and Astoria.

“Can you tell us what happened the night Mr Borgin died?”

Weasley nodded seriously. “The night of the crime, Minister,” he started, his voice much deeper than Draco ever remembered, “I was the one in charge of the Auror Department, since the Head Auror is off duty for the whole month.”

Shacklebolt nodded in understanding without even looking at him.

“At half past midnight, a Floo Call was passed to my office from the Department of Magical Transportation,” he explained, “the caller was Mrs Astoria Malfoy, and she informed us of the fact that she thought that Mrs Borgin had killed her husband.”

Draco looked at Astoria, who didn’t look back at him. He knew what she had done, but he had never heard the complete version of the facts.

“Did you believe her?” asked Shacklebolt.

“I thought,” continued Weasley, “like many other times when we receive this kind of call, that she might have overreacted to something. You know, sometime a quarrel or a little bickering is mistaken for a death threat.”

“What made you change your mind, Auror Weasley?” asked Doge, suddenly interested.

“As I was explaining to Mrs Malfoy that we would check the address the following day, she produced a letter through the Floo Network,” he replied, “a letter sent from Mrs Borgin and addressed to Mr Malfoy.”

“Is this the letter?” questioned Shacklebolt, holding Pansy’s missive up high.

Weasley nodded.

“Do you mind reading the content of this letter out loud?” asked Shacklebolt, stretching his arm towards Weasley.

Weasley walked to his seat and took the letter from the Minister. He came back to the centre of the room and Draco saw him glancing briefly at Pansy before focusing on the message.

“The letter says,” he started, clearing his throat, “ _You will have to come and visit me in Azkaban from now on, because I am going to kill him with my bare hands – Pansy._ ” He raised his eyes to look at Shacklebolt, who nodded back at him.

“And that was what made you go to the flat, am I correct?” asked Shacklebolt.

Weasley nodded and walked back to the Minister to give him the letter back.

“And you think you acted well?”

Weasley frowned slightly. “Well, Mr Borgin was dead when we found him,” he replied, “so, I can only say that I hoped we had acted more quickly.”

Shacklebolt nodded in agreement. “What did you find when you arrived at the flat?”

“The place had no Anti-Apparition wards, and so my team and I Apparated inside the house.” He took a deep breath. “We were lucky to Apparate in the right room, where we found Mrs Borgin with her wand pointed to Mr Borgin’s naked and lifeless body.”

“Did you think she had just killed him?”

Weasley shook his head. “No, he had been dead for more than half-an-hour when we arrived,” he explained, “we are unsure about what she was doing. She was probably going to dispose of the body.”

Shacklebolt scribbled something. “And you stopped her.”

“We disarmed her and checked the place,” he continued, “she was alone.” He glanced again at Pansy. “Then we brought her to the Ministry.” He looked from Doge to Shacklebolt. “I’m afraid she wasn’t checked by a Healer, as I said before, but we tested her wand and we couldn’t find any trace of the Killing Curse.”

Draco was grateful that Weasley had stressed that detail again.

Doge peered down at the Auror. “Do you think she killed him?” he asked very bluntly.

Weasley seemed to be taken aback by his honest question, and Pansy as well for she looked up from Doge to Weasley with big eyes filled with expectancy.

It took the Auror some long seconds before he could find the words to reply. “I don’t think she did,” he finally admitted.

Draco could only see half of his face, but he saw that he was resolute and serious as he spoke, and he didn’t seem to care about the murmur that was shaking the crowd around him. Nor about Pansy, who was now looking at him with her mouth wide open.

“Why would that be, Auror?” asked Doge without being able to contain his surprise.

Weasley’s hands balled into fists. “I’ve arrested countless murders in the past, and she doesn’t look like one to me,” he explained. “She was in shock and she seemed too upset to even speak when we arrived. And the fact that we couldn’t find any traces of a third person, doesn’t mean that a third person was not involved.”

“Thank you, Auror Weasley,” smiled Doge, sitting back. “I don’t have any other questions.”

Shacklebolt shook his head. “Me neither. Thank you, Auror.” He looked at the papers in his hands and then looked towards Draco’s direction. Only not at Draco, but at Astoria. “We would like to call Mrs Malfoy to testify.”

Astoria stood up with grace. Draco looked up at her face and saw that she was looking particularly calm and almost amused, as if she had prepared all her life for this moment. He hated her so much, he wanted to point his wand at her and curse her right there in front of everybody.

She walked gracefully to the middle of the room and stood, beautiful and proud like royalty. Draco looked at Pansy and he saw that her eyes were fixed coldly on his wife. Her tiny fingers were grabbing the armrests to the point that her knuckles had turned white, and he could see her muscles tensing as she focused on the features of the other woman.

“Mrs Malfoy,” Shacklebolt addressed Astoria,” would you mind telling us what happened the night of the crime?”

Astoria nodded elegantly and smiled in a captivating way. “Of course, Minister,” she replied obsequiously. “I think my husband received the aforementioned letter around half past eleven in the evening. We were still sitting at the dinner table for we had a very late supper.”

Suddenly, Draco wondered what she would say had happened. Because he had brought the letter to his study, walked out, Disapparated, and came back roughly an hour later. Would she say that? Would she, in one go, send her husband and his lover to Azkaban? He imagined his father wouldn’t be too happy with that, and he hoped he kicked her out of the Manor if something like that happened.

“My husband excused himself,” continued Astoria, “and went to his study to open the missive.”

“What was his reaction to the letter?” asked Shacklebolt.

Astoria flashed a cruel smile. “That of annoyance,” she replied, “he didn’t understand why someone such as  _her_  would—”

“Mrs Malfoy,” Shacklebolt scolded her like a child, “you will refer to the defendant by her name.”

Astoria smiled stiffly at him and gave him a curt nod. Draco’s eyes shifted from his wife to Pansy. He thought he would have seen her rejoice for the way Shacklebolt had reprimanded Astoria, but Pansy’s face was a mask of coldness.

“He didn’t understand why someone like  _Mrs Borgin_ ,” she repeated, “would write such a message to him.”

Shacklebolt nodded in understanding. “What is the relationship between Mrs Borgin and your husband? Are they  _friends_?”

Draco thought that the Minister had stressed the word ‘friends’ in an unnecessary way. He couldn’t see Astoria’s face, but he was sure her eyes were shooting daggers at the Minister. He would have rejoiced for the fact that he was embarrassing her in front of everybody, if it wasn’t for the fact that it was his honour that had been called into question. He surely couldn’t afford another scandal, not after having been involved in this trial already.

“No, definitely not,” she replied coldly, “I think I remember that they attended Hogwarts in the same year, but they were never more than acquaintances even back then.”

Shacklebolt looked at her suspiciously. “Would you care to explain why Mrs Borgin would write to him in such a moment?”

“As I said,” continued Astoria coldly, “my husband himself didn’t know.” She looked briefly at Pansy and Draco could see his wife’s cruel eyes as they met Pansy’s pained ones. “I’m afraid  _this woman_  might not have many people to whom she could write, though.”

“Mrs Malfoy,” thundered Shacklebolt, “you will respect the defendant!” It was a mere formality, but Draco was glad for that.

Astoria smiled maliciously. “As I was saying,  _Mrs Borgin_  might not have many people to whom she could write,” she retorted icily. “I’m convinced that she leads quite a solitary life.”

Draco looked at Pansy. Her long fingernails were scratching at the armrests as she stared coldly at the other witch. He wondered if he could have muttered a Wandless spell that would make Astoria’s skin break into a myriad of papules, and if anybody would have noticed that he had been the one to do it.

“She does say,  _You will have to come and visit me in Azkaban from now on_ , which could be interpreted as if he had gone visiting her before,” pointed out Shacklebolt sensibly.

Astoria’s face hardened. “I don’t know what you are implying, Minister,” she hissed icily, “but I don’t have anything to reproach my husband for. And he certainly didn’t visit her that night.”

Doge smiled soothingly. “Of course, of course, Mrs Malfoy,” he hurried to say, “I’m sure the Minister didn’t mean to offend you and your family in any way.” He looked at Shacklebolt. “I think we are quite done questioning Mrs Malfoy, Kingsley, haven’t we?”

Shacklebolt didn’t seem too intimidated by Astoria’s tone. He only looked annoyed at her. He nodded curtly and announced another break before finishing the trial with Draco’s deposal. There was a great rustling of chairs as people began to walk around, and Draco looked at Pansy who was once again approached by Weasley and untied.

“You should thank me.”

Draco turned towards Astoria as she sat down, a smile still plastered on her face as some cameras flashed towards them.

“You are the reason why we are here in the first place,” he hissed, trying to move his lips as little as possible.

She tossed her stylish curls behind her shoulders. “You’re next, don’t screw up all our work for a slut,” she muttered coldly.

***

“You don’t think I did it.”

Weasley looked down at her with his blue eyes wide open. He seemed surprised at her tone for her voice was dripping emotion and shock. He shook his head softly. “It’s not important what I think.”

“But you don’t think I did it,” she repeated almost frantically.

“No,” he replied firmly. “Listen, it’s only Malfoy now,” he continued, “and then everybody who is not part of the Wizengamot will be asked to leave and they will decide whether you are guilty or innocent.”

Pansy nodded, quite unable to reply. Weasley didn’t believe she had killed her husband, but he was right. The way things were going, Draco would probably just go with Astoria’s version, and with only Mr Bolden to defend her, she would be found guilty and sent to Azkaban before sunset. After all, Mr Bolden would have to do his job anyway. He was paid by the Malfoys; his loyalty certainly didn’t lie with her. She suddenly had the feeling that it was just a trick. He was working hard to save Draco, and he had only pretended to defend her, trying to tell them about a third person, but in reality he had let the witnesses do all the work. Let them incriminate her. Pansy wondered if Weasley’s admission was upsetting Mr Bolden. If that was a bit that wasn’t going according to plan.

Suddenly she understood why Draco had insisted her to have Mr Bolden. It was a trap. Maybe if there was someone else, he would have actually tried to defend her. Mr Bolden didn’t. Pansy felt small and unloved. She felt like she could have loathed Draco at that moment, though deep inside of her she still didn’t.

“Are you okay?”

She raised her eyes to find Weasley staring down at her, concern in his eyes. She wanted to hate him for that. She wanted to hate him for the way he looked at her, as if he cared. She couldn’t do it though, not after his admission. “Yes,” she muttered darkly, looking away. She massaged her hands. They hurt her even more now, for she had pulled at her restraints without noticing while Astoria was sputtering all those lies about her. She kept her eyes low when Shacklebolt and Doge came back and sat at their high seats.

Weasley tied her up again and went to sit in the front row. Now it was Draco’s turn, and she felt her heartbeat pulsing furiously in every cell of her body, from her temples to her fingers, her fear and nervousness made her heart hurt.

“We would like to call Mr Draco Malfoy to testify,” announced Shacklebolt, looking at Draco.

Pansy kept her eyes away, but she could hear the heavy steps of someone who didn’t want to be there as they drew near her. Finally, when he came to stand next to her, she let herself glance up. He was looking stubbornly away from her, his eyes fixed on Shacklebolt. His famous Malfoy composure showed well as he looked absolutely impassive.

“Mr Malfoy,” the Minister addressed Draco, “do you agree with your wife’s recount of the events of that night?”

Pansy could see Draco taking a deep breath, his eyes lowering a little as if to weigh his options. A part of Pansy expected him to say ‘yes’, another part, though, still hoped fervently that he would say ‘no’ and confess his crime. Another part again hoped that he didn’t, because even though he had tried to save his skin all along, she still didn’t want to see him in Azkaban.

“I do,” he finally agreed, and Pansy thought that she could actually feel her heart shattering into pieces.

Shacklebolt nodded thoughtfully. “And may I ask you what kind of relationship you have with Mrs Borgin?” He glanced at Astoria. “Unless you are as sensitive as your wife.”

Draco raised his chin to show that he was not. “I am a good client of Borgin and Burkes,” he explained, “and Mrs Borgin and I have a work relationship based on respect and friendship.”

“Is that all?” asked Shacklebolt suspiciously.

Pansy’s eyesight blurred and she panicked. She couldn’t let tears stream down her cheeks at that moment. Apart from the embarrassment, tears at Draco’s statement meant that he was more than a client for her.

Draco nodded. He hadn’t looked at her once since he had come to stand in the centre of the room and Pansy was grateful for that.

“And may I ask what did you do in the hour that went from the moment you received the letter to when Mrs Malfoy contacted the Auror Department?” he asked sensibly.

Draco seemed to falter slightly, but recovered quickly. “We… we debated what to do,” he replied as firmly as possible.

Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows. “And can I ask—”

His sentence was cut off by the heavy door opening at his back. Pansy had to crane her neck to look at the young, nervous Ministry employee who hurried towards the Minister. She glanced at Draco and saw that he was looking at the scene too. The young man, a boy who seemed to have just gotten out of Hogwarts, walked to Shacklebolt and stood on tiptoes as he cupped his hands around his mouth to whisper something in the Minister’s ear.

Shacklebolt frowned slightly as he listened to the boy. Then his eyes widened and he roared a “What?” that echoed through the room. The boy nodded and continued what looked like an excited flow of words. Shacklebolt’s expression grew more and more incredulous then, when the boy withdrew he nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes,” he muttered hurriedly, “bring him in.”

Pansy looked at them without understanding. Her eyes shifted involuntarily on Draco and saw that he was finally looking back at her. His eyes too seemed to be those of someone who didn’t comprehend what was going on. Pansy tried to convey all her hatred for him with one glance, but she was sure she had failed, for her eyes were surely filled with pain rather than loathing.

The door opened again and Pansy gaped in disbelief. Walking peremptorily towards the middle of the courtroom was Mr Burke. His face calm and his hands at his side. As he stepped closer, Pansy noticed an Auror with a wand pointed at his back following him.

“You can go back to your seat, Mr Malfoy,” ordered Shacklebolt without even looking at him.

The Minister had eyes only for Mr Burke.

***

Pansy looked as Draco glanced briefly at her one more time before walking back to his seat. She followed him with her eyes and saw when Astoria whispered something to him and he brushed her aside. She didn’t keep her eyes on them too long though, but quickly returned to look at Mr Burke.

What was he doing there? How was he important for her trial? What were his intentions? Pansy tried to think hard at the reason why he was there. Then, suddenly, she realised something. Borgin was dead and so was the baby that would have been his potential heir. If Burke directed the Wizengamot towards the decision that she was guilty, he could have probably inherited his late brother’s shop.

She felt the pieces of her heart break into smaller shards. She had considered him a friend, she had gone to him when she had a problem, she had trusted him, and that was how he repaid her. First he helped Borgin kill her son, and now he would send her to Azkaban for a crime she hadn’t committed.

Mr Burke was standing in front of Shacklebolt now, only a few inches from her. He looked calmly up at the Minister. “Minister,” he addressed him with a slight bow of his head. Then he turned to look at Pansy with the same, calm stare and offered her a soft smile. “Mrs Borgin,” he greeted her with another bow.

Pansy’s lips parted slightly in surprise, but she didn’t reply to him.

“Mr Burke,” Shacklebolt addressed the old man, looking down at him, “I’ve been informed that you have some information about the murderer of Mr Borgin.”

Mr Burke looked back at the Minister. “Indeed, Minister,” he replied calmly, “I was there the night of the crime.”

Shacklebolt’s eyes widened. “You mean you were there when Mr Borgin was killed?” he asked in disbelief, probably wondering how they could have missed this detail in their investigations.

Pansy looked warily at the man. He wasn’t there. She would have noticed him. What was he doing?

Mr Burke nodded. “I was indeed.”

Shacklebolt swallowed. “So, can you tell us who killed the victim?” he asked dryly.

“With pleasure,” he replied and Pansy felt her heart thumping in her ears. “ _I_  did.”

The crowd of people in their seats roared at this piece of information. Some of them stood and some others cried in surprise. Pansy didn’t move, she didn’t breathe, nor she was aware if her heart was still beating or not. Pansy didn’t understand.

“Silence!” roared Shacklebolt. “Silence!”

The murmurs quietened and the people sat back at their seats.

“You did?” asked Shacklebolt, his voice heavy with disbelief.

Mr Burke nodded again. “I did,” he confirmed again.

Shacklebolt shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr Burke,” he pointed out, “but aren’t you the only brother of the late Caractacus Burke?”

“I am,” he replied placidly.

The Minister frowned. “I thought you and Mr Borgin were friends,” he admitted.

Mr Burke smiled. “Friends is too wild a word to describe my relationship with Mr Borgin. Acquaintances is more appropriate.”

Doge looked at him coldly. “And why would you have waited this long to confess?”

“I hadn’t felt the urge to until this morning,” he declared flatly, “when I saw an article on the Prophet that said that Mrs Borgin’s trial was today. I might have a questionable reputation, but I am no man to let a young lady be sent to Azkaban unjustly.”

If Pansy hadn’t been too busy being shocked, she would have hoped that Draco had heard those words loud and clear.

“That’s honourable of you,” murmured Shacklebolt, then he hardened his expression, as if he remembered that he was talking to a murderer. “Why did you kill him?”

Mr Burke turned to look at Pansy. “Because of her,” he admitted softly.

She stared back at him. What? What was happening?

“You mean we should consider this a crime of passion?” asked Doge almost excitedly. “Do you love Mrs Borgin?”

Mr Burke smiled at her. “I love Mrs Borgin like a father could love his child,” he replied gently.

“Then what was it?” questioned Shacklebolt impatiently.

Mr Burke frowned slightly, he looked back at the Minister. “I’m sorry,” he answered, “but I thought these things would have already been mentioned at this point of the trial.”

“What things?” asked Doge urgently.

Mr Burke walked towards Pansy and she stiffened in her chair, her eyes wide in surprise rather than fear. In a few seconds though, Weasley was at her side, his wand pointed at him. “I’m afraid I have to ask you to step back, Mr Burke,” he ordered gently but firmly.

Mr Burke stopped and looked at the Auror. He nodded. “I understand,” he murmured. He stepped back and glanced again at Pansy. “I’m sorry if I say something that you’d rather keep private, Mrs Borgin,” he told her, “but I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Pansy swallowed. No, no,  _no_. What was he was going to say? She needed to know before he said it. He couldn’t have told everybody about… about… Pansy shook her head. Why did she care so much? If he let everybody know that she had borne Draco’s child it would have only been a wonderful revenge for what he had done to her. If it wasn’t for the fact that her reputation was at stake.

“Can you tell us the reason of your act, Mr Burke?” asked Shacklebolt finally.

Mr Burke walked back towards him. “I’m afraid I killed Mr Borgin because I couldn’t stand the way he treated his wife anymore,” he finally admitted. “I couldn’t stand the fact that she came to me with the signs of his tortures on her body and I couldn’t do anything to help her. I couldn’t stand the pain in this woman’s eyes as she was abused and forced to lie with a man who didn’t love her and whom she didn’t love. I couldn’t stand her wasting away under my eyes when she didn’t have enough money to get through the month with Borgin’s meagre salary. I hated when he humiliated her, when he mistreated her, when he segregated her in their flat.” He took a deep breath. “And finally, seven months ago, I was present when Mr Borgin killed his own child mere seconds after Mrs Borgin had delivered him. And I loathed him for that.”

Pansy felt as if the courtroom was spinning around her. She could hear Weasley sucking in his breath next to her as he listened to Mr Burke, but anything and everybody else in the room became a blur. She could feel eyes on her, lots of them, and flashes and the scribbles of feathers on parchment, but her mind had blanked completely and now Mr Burke’s words echoed in her head.

Nobody spoke for a long time, or if they did Pansy couldn’t hear them, but she was quite sure people were just too shocked to talk. She imagined Draco’s face as he listened to him. Especially as he listened to his last admission. Draco thought she had had a stillbirth.

“I’m afraid we need more details,” dictated Shacklebolt. His voice had lost all its intensity as if he didn’t want more details at all.

Mr Burke darkened, apparently he too didn’t like to dig deep into Pansy’s wounds. “You will find a dragon shaped scar on Mrs Borgin’s left side,” he let them know, “created with a cursed coin.” He took a deep breath. “He tied Mrs Borgin on their bed and pushed the coin against her skin as he brutally raped her.” The courtroom was now silent and Pansy felt as if she was completely and utterly naked on that chair. “That’s what Mr Borgin bragged about,” he continued, “and I was forbidden to heal Mrs Borgin, despite the fact that she came to me for help.” He looked at Pansy whose eyes were looking pleadingly at him, asking him to stop exposing her shame. He ignored her. “She was in pain for two months, until I confirmed that she was expecting, then he allowed me to treat the wound.”

Doge was looking at nobody in particular with his eyes wide. He looked like a child rather than an old man. “Why… why would he do something like that?” he asked softly.

“Pain aroused him,” explained Mr Burke coldly. “Oh! How he loved to tell me how Mrs Borgin writhed and cried under him!” He gritted his teeth. “Tales that would make your hair stand at the back of your heads.”

Shacklebolt looked at the papers, his eyes wide with horror. “Yes, yes,” he muttered, scribbling something quickly, “yes, I see… I’ve… I…” He seemed to think about something to say. “But why would he kill his own child, Mr Burke?”

Pansy wanted to throw up. Was this the time she was exposed to public disdain?

“It was not the child he had desired, apparently,” he informed them coldly. “Too weak, too small, too ugly. He didn’t say. He just took the baby away from his mother and killed him in the other room.” He lowered his eyes. “I can still remember the piercing cries of Mrs Borgin as the room flashed with the green light of the Killing Curse and the baby stopped wailing.”

Pansy felt the urge to cry. His words were making her remember things that she had wanted to forget. She didn’t stop herself, and the first tear that rolled down her cheek tickled her skin so much she tried to bring her hand to her face to brush it away only to find it still bound to the chair.

“I see,” breathed Shacklebolt. His voice was now shaky, all his authority lost. “Why didn’t you kill him then? Why wait seven months?”

Mr Burke took a deep breath. “I wasn’t ready to do it the night of the delivery,” he replied, “but the other night something happened and I just knew that I couldn’t have allowed these abuses anymore.”

“What happened?” asked Shacklebolt dryly.

“He had kept her confined in their house for seven, long months,” he continued. “He had continued his sadistic games of power, forcing her to eat until her little stomach pushed everything back up, keeping her wand away from her, cutting her off from the world.” He raised his chin. “And finally, that night, he found her ready to bear another baby. He used the Cruciatus Curse on her when she refused to submit to him, but when he was done, when he had emptied his seed deep into her… I just couldn’t let him continue. I had to do something.”

Doge looked like a little boy when he spoke, “How… how do you know all these things?”

“Ah! The stories he told me in his narcissistic bragging,” murmured Mr Burke sadly. “Tales that made me want to kill him every single time he opened his mouth.”

Again the courtroom was silent. So silent, Pansy could hear her heart echoing on the walls around her. He had been perfect.  _Perfect_. He had saved her and Draco at the same time. But Pansy was not happy. He was the only person she could call a friend at that moment. They couldn’t take him to Azkaban. She wouldn’t have let them.

“But the letter…?” asked Doge softly, his eyes filled with pity.

Mr Burke pursued his lips. “I don’t know if she wanted to kill him herself,” he replied, “but what I know is that she didn’t.” He looked sternly at Doge. “But if she did would you have the courage to blame her?” he asked defiantly.

Doge seemed at a loss of words. He looked from Pansy to Mr Burke and seemed to be on the verge of tears.

“I see,” murmured Shacklebolt feebly. Then his voice became more powerful when he called Weasley.

“Yes, Minister,” replied Weasley readily.

“Yes,” he muttered, “call St Mungo’s. See that they send us their best Healer right this moment. Someone to check Mrs Borgin.” He looked at his papers. “We need confirmation of Mr Burke’s statements,” he added almost sheepishly. Then he looked back at Weasley. “And Merlin! Untie Mrs Borgin!”

“Gladly,” answered Weasley, his voice thick with emotion. He turned and pointed his wand at her wrists, letting the bonds come undone. She raised her eyes on Mr Burke, and the moment she came free she stood up. She didn’t even know what she was doing, she just did it without thinking. She walked towards Mr Burke and hugged him tightly, her arms circling the old man’s torso, her head buried in his chest. She could feel his arms hugging her back and some murmurs raised from the crowd. Cameras were still snapping pictures of them and she hid her head in his robes. She wanted to tell him so many things and yet she couldn’t find her voice. She let her tears moisten his clothes and didn’t care that everybody saw her in a moment of weakness.

“Everybody out,” ordered Percy Weasley, “the Wizengamot will wait for the medical results and will deliberate. You can wait in the Atrium, we will call you as soon as a verdict has been reached.”

Pansy felt a pair of strong hands grabbing her and she was easily detached from Mr Burke. She looked up at him, but only for a mere second as two Aurors grabbed him and brought him away.

“Come,” whispered Weasley softly.

“No,” she whimpered, shaking her head.

“Come,” he repeated, circling her shoulders with his strong arm and dragging her away.

***

Draco was staring blankly in front of him. The Atrium was filled with people who were chatting excitedly. Some journalists were communicating with their newspapers through the Floo Network, people were laughing and bringing their hands to their mouths in excitement, as if they had just attended an incredibly exhilarating show.

Draco wasn’t. His head was spinning, his mouth was dry. He couldn’t believe what had happened. Someone was willingly taking his place in prison. He couldn’t believe it. That couldn’t have been real. He should have felt as if he were over the moon at that moment, but somehow he didn’t.

Part of him thought that it was because he still couldn’t believe it, still thought that something like that couldn’t have happened. The words, the actions, the realisation had not yet sunk into his brain. It was all feeble like a dream.

And another part of him was thinking persistently at Burke’s words.  _He just took the baby away from his mother and killed him in the other room_. Was that the truth? Was that part of the lies he had told them? He needed to know. Why would Borgin kill his own child? He had wanted one for so long… What had happened? He couldn’t believe Mr Burke’s explanations. What was wrong with the child?

Draco’s head started to hurt as he kept thinking about it. He tried to push that thought at the back his head, but that didn’t help. All the things that Mr Burke had said… he had known only half of them. He closed his eyes and somehow managed to blame Pansy for that. She never  _ever_  told him anything. Why didn’t she? Why didn’t she trust him? He would have gone to her house once all that was over. He would have tied her to a chair. He would have got her to tell him everything.  _Everything_. He would have forced Veritaserum down her throat if that was necessary. He would have got the truth out of her.

Then he would have hugged her and kissed her and touched her and cradled her until their bodies grew old together.

***

“You can get dressed,” the Healer let Pansy know gently, a soft smile stretching her lips.

Pansy nodded and looked at her as she filled in a medical form with all the information that she had gotten from her visit. Pansy stood up and started to wear her underwear.

The Healer turned to look at Weasley. He had been sitting there with his eyes on the floor through the entire visit. He had looked up only once, when the Healer had checked her scar. Out of curiosity, Pansy imagined.

“Auror Weasley,” called the Healer coldly, “here’s the file.” She handed him the medical form. “I would like to point out once again that this is not the way we usually work at St Mungo’s.”

Weasley looked up at her and seemed just as annoyed as she was. “Believe me, I can imagine that,” he growled, “and I’ll make sure to file a complaint to the Ministry for not having at least one female Auror on duty during every shift.” He had been asked to leave during the examination, but his duties didn’t let him.

The Healer nodded curtly. “Mrs Borgin,” she greeted, turning to nod at her.

“Healer,” replied Pansy softly before she walked out of the room.

Pansy raised her arms to put on the dress and felt it slide down her sides with ease. When she emerged from the fabric she met Weasley’s gaze. He was looking at her with big, blue eyes filled with… pity. She had to look away for she could not bear to be pitied by someone like Weasley.

She brought her hands to her head to comb her hair as well as she could.

“Parkinson…” he started, his voice soft and tremulous.

“Don’t, Weasley,” she warned him without even looking at him. She was almost touched that he hadn’t believed her to be a murderer, but she couldn’t bear to hear his shaky voice as he showed his compassion for her.

He didn’t listen to her. “I’m so sorry…”

Pansy rolled her eyes and made a great show of looking as cold as she could towards him. “Save your Gryffindor chivalry for someone who cares,” she reprimanded him bitterly.

Still, it seemed he didn’t hear her. “I had no idea…” he murmured, his compassion-filled voice a punch in her stomach. “I am so sorry.”

She shook her head in irritation and decided it was better if she kept quiet. He would understand that she didn’t want to talk about it and would stop saying those things.

She had forgotten how thick Weasley could be though. “If there’s anything,” he continued, his voice nothing more than a whisper, “anything I can do…”

She looked at him. “You can shut up,” she murmured bitterly.

Still, his eyes looked at her as if she was a wounded puppy and she hated him for that. His body shook slightly, as if he was trying hard not to come close to her and maybe…  _hug_  her? She cringed at the very thought.

Finally, Weasley lowered his eyes and fidgeted with his wand. “I better go,” he finally murmured. “I need to give your medical form to the Wizengamot.” He looked at her. “You wait here.” He bit his bottom lip. “Do you need anything? Are you thirsty? Hungry? Are you cold?”

Pansy tried to look detached when she shook her head. She wasn’t sure she succeeded.

***

“The Wizengamot has reached a verdict,” announced Shacklebolt.

Draco swallowed hard. He was sitting on the edge of his seat. His hands gripped the wooden bench in front of him. Pansy was now sitting a few seats down from his, while Mr Burke had taken her place in the middle of the room. His hands were tied up just like Pansy’s had been, but he looked much calmer and more composed than she had.

“The entirety of the Wizengamot,” he continued, “had found Mrs Pansy Borgin not guilty of the murder of her husband, Mr Erebus Borgin.” He cleared his throat. “Therefore she is cleared of all charges.”

Some people squealed happily behind Draco. He thought he could recognise Millicent’s giggles. He found out he couldn’t move, nor breathe, nor hear his heart beating. He heard Astoria’s soft snort though.

“Silence!” bellowed Shacklebolt before continuing. “Mr Blodwyn Burke has been charged with the murder of Mr Borgin and had been sentenced to a life-time imprisonment in Azkaban.”

A murmur of disapproval raised from the crowd.

“Silence,” called Shacklebolt again. “But considering the circumstances,” he went on, “his sentence will be shortened to five years.” He looked down at Mr Burke seriously. “With this, Mr Burke, we don’t mean that we approve of what you’ve done,” he let him know, “but that we understand why you did it.”

Mr Burke nodded softly in comprehension.

Shacklebolt stood up. “Case closed,” he finally announced as the trial was brought to an end.

***

“Let’s go,” hissed Astoria, tugging at his robe and pointing towards one of the fireplaces.

Draco jerked free of her. “Don’t touch me, Astoria,” he hissed back. “Go home.” He turned away from her and started to walk briskly towards the lifts. The Atrium was on level eight, he had to go to level nine and then take the stairs to level ten – the place from where he had just come from – and then hope that Mr Burke hadn’t been taken away yet. There would be much less of a crowd now, and he would go unnoticed.

“Where are you going?” he heard his wife shriek as she was left behind.

He didn’t reply. He walked and waited for the lifts and walked and climbed down stairs as he made his way back to the courtrooms. There were still a lot of Aurors and some members of the Wizengamot walking around in plum robes, some of them, Draco could hear, were still discussing the case.

“A terrible, terrible thing,” someone murmured.

“Horrible,” another agreed, “that poor girl…”

Draco was sure Pansy wouldn’t have liked them to talk about her like that. She didn’t like to be called  _poor_  by anybody at all.

“I’m afraid you can’t be here, Sir.”

Draco looked at the man standing in front of him. An Auror. What was his name? He had seen him already. Probably patrolling Hogwarts back when he was in his fifth year. Or was it his sixth?

Draco stared haughtily at him. “I need to talk to Mr Burke,” he let him know in his most arrogant voice.

The Auror let out a snort. “I’m afraid that is out of the question,” he growled, “the convict can’t see anybody until he is transferred to Azkaban.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “I give hundreds of Galleons each year to this damn institution,” he hissed.

“And I’m sure the Ministry appreciates your support,” replied the Auror firmly, “but still, you can’t see the convict.”

“I could send you to work in the Muggle Department,” he threatened, thinking that he couldn’t have said anything worse.

The Auror cocked his head. “I’m a Muggleborn,” he let him know calmly, “and it’s the Muggle Liaison Office for your information.”

Draco looked darkly at the man. He opened his mouth to reply something nasty, but he was cut off by a voice at his back.

“What’s going on here?”

Draco turned quickly to face the owner of the voice, but he had recognised him even before he had turned.

“Weasley,” he grunted stiffly, “I need to talk to Mr Burke.”

Weasley glanced at him as if he was trying to understand if he was serious or not. When Draco looked back at him seriously, he raised his eyebrows. “Why?” he asked suspiciously.

Draco’s face hardened. “I just do,” he replied curtly, “can you let me in? Or do you have to ask a proper Auror for permission?”

Weasley looked at him amused, and Draco thought that the times when he was easily provoked were well behind them. “I am a proper Auror, Malfoy,” he replied calmly, “and as an Auror, I have to ask you to leave. The trial is over and only authorised personnel can stay here.”

Draco gritted his teeth. “Can I talk to you in private, Weasley?” he whispered.

The Auror looked at him as if he couldn’t think of a reason why Draco wanted to talk to him privately, but he finally nodded and gestured for Draco to follow him. “Make it quick,” he told him when they were out of earshot from the other Auror.

Draco nodded. “I need to talk to Mr Burke,” he repeated firmly.

Weasley took a deep breath, as if he was preparing to explain something to a child. “That would mean breaking at least five different rules,” he let him know. “I am afraid I can’t let that happen.” He seemed to think about something and added, “You’ll be able to visit him in Azkaban, on a monthly basis.”

Draco shook his head. “No,” he retorted urgently, “I need to talk to him now!”

“I’m sorry, Malfoy.” The Auror made to walk away, but Draco came to stand in front of him. Weasley looked down at him with his eyebrows high on his forehead.

“I need to talk to him,” Draco breathed, “to… to  _thank_  him.”

Weasley tilted his head. “Beg your pardon?”

Draco shook his head. “I’ve seen how you looked at her, Weasley,” he murmured. “You said you didn’t believe she was a murderer even before she was cleared.” He took a sharp breath. “Weasley, she’s gone through hell and I just want to thank him for having stopped that.”

Weasley’s eyes seemed troubled. He swallowed hard, sighing as if he were contemplating his options. He shifted nervously from a foot to the other and crossed his arms on his chest.

“Weasley,” growled Draco impatiently, “don’t make me beg you.” And with horror he understood that he would have had no problems begging him if he needed to.

Weasley looked at him before taking a deep breath. He set his jaw. “Follow me,” he murmured darkly.

In silence, Draco did as he was told. He followed Weasley through a maze of corridors that became colder and colder. Finally they came to a halt in front of a door guarded by another Auror.

“Williamson,” called Weasley firmly, “Savage was looking for you upstairs. Level Three, something that has to do with snow in the restrooms.”

Williamson groaned loudly. “I can’t, I have to watch the door.”

“I’ll stay,” proposed Weasley, “now be quick. I have other things to do.”

Williamson rolled his eyes and glanced briefly at Draco, before turning on his heels and disappearing through the corridors.

Draco looked surprised at Weasley. He had lied with a naturalness that was worthy of a Slytherin.

The Auror turned the key in the door and opened it. He looked at Draco. “You have five minutes,” he told him firmly.

Draco nodded. He walked inside the cell and stopped only when the door at his back closed again. The cell was cold and humid and he imagined Pansy having been in a similar place for a week. She was indeed a resilient little thing, as his father had described her once.

“Is it already time for the transfer?” asked a calm voice from a corner.

Draco swallowed. “No,” he replied as he looked at the man who was facing the wall.

Mr Burke turned and his eyes widened at the sight of Draco. He stood up. “Mr Malfoy,” he acknowledged Draco, walking towards him, but stopping a few feet away, “I suppose you are here to hear me pleading for your forgiveness.”

Draco frowned. That was the last thing he was doing there. He didn’t understand. Forgiveness for what? He shook his head. “I’m here to thank you,” he let him know stiffly.

Mr Burke looked at him without showing any emotion. “Does that mean that you’ve already forgiven me?” he asked.

Draco shook his head again. “I don’t think I have anything to forgive you of,” he told him softly, “if anything, you’ll have to forgive me.”

Mr Burke looked at him with inscrutable eyes. “You only did what I was about to do myself,” he replied evenly. “I spent many sleepless nights thinking about Mrs Borgin’s abuses.”

Draco nodded. He wished he knew the feeling, but he hadn’t lost that much sleep for Pansy. Especially since he didn’t know half the things that Mr Burke knew. “Can I ask you something?”

Mr Burke nodded.

Draco took a deep breath. He didn’t know why, but he was nervous. “Pansy’s child…” he started, but the words trailed away. “Mr Borgin said it was a stillbirth,” he managed to say, “but you said…” Again he couldn’t finish the sentence. He lowered his eyes. “You said it wasn’t…”

“What do you want to know?” asked Mr Burke gently.

“The truth,” replied Draco in a murmur.

Mr Burke sighed deeply. “It wasn’t a stillbirth, Mr Malfoy,” he replied, “the child was born and he was strong and handsome.”

Draco looked up at Mr Burke. “Then why did he kill him?” he breathed softly.

Mr Burke looked at him as if he was trying to understand what to say. “Perhaps Mrs Borgin should be the one to tell you,” he replied gravely, “because if she hadn’t already done it, it might mean that she doesn’t want you to know.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Tell me what?” he asked, taking a step towards him. “What?”

Mr Burke remained still like a statue.

“Please, Mr Burke,” he pleaded, his voice heavy with emotion.

The man took a deep breath. “Mr Borgin didn’t want the child,” he admitted softly, “because he knew he was not his own.” He looked intensely at Draco. “The baby had blond hair.”

Draco felt a surge of nausea raising from his stomach. “Blond?” he whispered.

Mr Burke nodded. “It was your son that she delivered.” His voice grew hard. “A life for a life. I kept her still as he killed your son, and now I take your place in prison.”

Draco turned his back at him. “My son,” he whispered.  _His son_. Pansy had delivered his son and she had been punished for that. He remembered when she was pregnant, how happy he was. He wondered if there had been some connection, if he had known all along, on a different level, that the child in her womb was his own. And she hadn’t told him. She had let him believe that it had been a stillbirth. Why? What was she afraid of? What was she trying to protect him from? The pain? The anger? The shame?

As the realisation that Borgin had killed his son kicked in, he felt a piece of himself die. He needed to go and see Pansy. He needed to lie with her. He needed to talk to her. He needed to touch her and ask her if that was true. He stretched a hand towards the wall and leaned against it. He felt his legs weak and the nausea that was still threatening to make him sick. He had lost a son. His son had been killed and he had killed the murderer of his child and the butcher of the mother of his child.  _The mother of his child_. Pansy was the mother of his child.

The door opened unexpectedly and when Draco looked up he could feel sweat starting to form at his hairline.

“Time’s up,” announced Weasley firmly. He looked at Draco and frowned. He opened his mouth probably to ask if he was all right, but Draco didn’t let him talk, for he detached himself from the wall and pushed past him and out of the cell. He didn’t even say goodbye to Mr Burke, he just needed to walk out of that place. He needed air and he needed Pansy.

“Are you okay, Malfoy?” asked Weasley, closing the door and locking it.

Draco looked at him. He wasn’t. “Yes,” he replied tonelessly, “thank you, Weasley.” And without waiting for his reply or for a snide comment about his gentleness, he walked away.

***

Pansy was given her wand back, a flyer where they explained how to change her surname back to Parkinson – as she had expressed her will to do so – and a stack of papers.

“I’ve been told I have to pay for the meals I was served while at the Ministry,” she let her know coldly.

The witch who was checking her out shook her head. “It has already been taken care of,” she replied, smiling and handing her a folded receipt.

Pansy frowned.

“Your clothes will be sent to your home address before evening,” continued the witch, “and you’ll find all the information you need in this brochure about how to take care of your late husband. From the burial to coping with the loss.”

Pansy shook her head. “I want the Ministry to do it,” she informed her curtly.

The witch put the brochure away. “Sure,” she replied, “you can ask for that too.” She checked some papers. “You can come next week for the reading of the will.”

Pansy nodded.

“That’s all, Mrs Borgin,” finished the witch, standing up. “Have a lovely evening.”

Pansy didn’t reply as the witch left the room. She took the receipt from the pile of papers that she had been given and unfolded it. She groaned.

Under the amount of money for her meals and the printed word ‘PAID’ there was Ronald Weasley’s signature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missing scenes from this chapter can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2366009/chapters/5224298).


	11. A Secret Correspondence

***

Pansy had been lying on the bed in the nursery for days. She didn’t know how many, she just knew that the sun rose and set far more times that she was aware of. She never left the room except to walk to the kitchen to nibble at something and crawl to the bathroom to stay in the tub until the water turned to ice and she had to creep out, her skin white and wrinkled like a dried plum.

She hadn’t touched anything in the flat. There were still dirty footprints from where the Aurors had checked the house and the sheets on the bed in the main bedroom were still crumpled and soiled with Borgin’s bodily fluids. The place was silent and all Pansy could hear was her own breaths and heart, all day long.

She hadn’t gone to the reading of the will. She didn’t care. Had he left her the shop, the house and the money? She had been sure he had, who else would he have left all his possessions? He had only her. So, the will, opened and validated by a Ministry employee, was sent to the flat a week later. She was right, she had inherited everything and even more. Borgin had kept it a secret to have a vault at Gringotts filled with enough money and precious objects to last her a good few years. She was now wealthy and the money belonged to her and only her.

Strangely, though, she found that she didn’t care. She remembered being told by her parents that she was never happy with what she got when she was a child, but somehow she knew that this was different. What she wanted was her son, and for Mr Burke to be released from Azkaban before his time. She couldn’t have either, and the despair filled her heart.

She hadn’t seen a soul in days. She had heard people knocking on the door of the shop from her windows, but she had ignored them. She had received letters from all over. Some from people present at the trial that she didn’t even know, some from people she did know, and some from people she would have rather ignored. She opened a few and threw away the rest. She only kept Millie’s, she didn’t even know why. She kept Draco’s letters too, but she didn’t open them.

She had kept the Anti-Apparition wards off in the house, but had left them on in the shop. Any thief could have Apparated in her flat and entered the shop on his two feet. But luckily that hadn’t happened yet. She just wanted to feel free to Apparate away from there whenever she wanted, even though she had never done it.

It was only after days of lying and sleeping and taking baths and nibbling at food that was becoming increasingly staler that Pansy finally decided that she had to do something.

She didn’t know what was different when she woke up after the umpteenth restless night of sleep. Maybe it was the fact that she had dreamt Borgin, smiling cruelly at her as he pushed into her, and that she had woken up covered in sweat. Maybe it was that slowly she was realising that she was alone and finally the only owner of her own life, and that she wanted things to be different, to be better. But that day, she decided to search every single inch of the flat and destroy everything that had once belonged to him.

Then she would decide what to do with her life.

***

“Walk out of that door, Draco, and I swear…” Astoria’s words trailed away, probably she thought that she was being more intimidating if she left her threat hanging in midair.

Draco stopped in his tracks. She was crazy. “You,” he growled slowly, turning to face her, “don’t control me.” He stepped towards her. “You don’t own me.” He cocked his head menacingly. “And you certainly don’t threaten me.”

She darkened, apparently not scared in the least by his tone. “Why do you want to go and see her?” she hissed. “Hasn’t she caused enough trouble already?” 

Draco shook his head embittered. “You are the one who alerted the Aurors,” he barked, “you are the one who caused trouble to us and to her.”

“Oh,” she hissed, narrowing her eyes, “don’t you dare go blaming me!”

He raised his eyebrows. “Why not? My father already did.”

Astoria blushed furiously. Apparently being reprimanded by Lucius was something she hadn’t expected and hadn’t liked. Draco, on the other hand, had enjoyed every bit of it, even if it had happened behind closed doors in his father’s study.

“Can’t you see how close you were to be exposed as an adulterer?” she asked bitterly. “Can you even imagine the shame?” She gritted her teeth. “On your name as well as mine.”

Draco darkened and unwillingly admitted that she was right. He had been that close to being on every newspaper with his story of infidelity and a bastard son. He could only thank Mr Burke for his indiscretion, and for taking his place in Azkaban. Draco shook his head bitterly. Astoria was right, but she had been the one to put their family into the danger of exposure, and Draco had to see Pansy.

“I am going to London,” he announced firmly, giving her his back to wear his cloak.

“Draco,” she hissed, “don’t go.” Her voice became softer. “Stay… for Scorpius.”

Draco’s muscles stiffened. What a demon she was that she had to bring his son into that. She knew that Scorpius would have been the only thing that would have made him stay home instead of visiting the  _other_  woman. Draco took a sharp breath, he had to be strong. After all, he wasn’t going to see her to be unfaithful to his wife. Sex was the farthest thing from his mind at that moment. He wouldn’t have turned it down, if the occasion presented itself, but for now all he wanted was to ask her about the baby. He wanted to hear from Pansy what it had been like to even glance at him for the briefest moment.

“Tell him,” murmured Draco, his voice low, “that his father will be home soon.” He opened the door and walked out in the still chilly June air, heading for the Gate of Manor where the Anti-Apparition ward had no effect.

***

The flat was a mess. A complete and utter mess. She had decided to throw Borgin’s stuff on the floor, and since that had been his house for much longer than it had been Pansy’s, she had found quite a lot of things that used to belong to him. Clothes, shoes, books, papers… She went through each and every single object she found, checking if its pockets held any kind of treasure, or if she could find bills or notes amongst his papers. She kept most of his books, for she loved to read, but discarded the ones that talked about the most effective ways of torturing people.

It had taken her hours, and still she was not done. There were still drawers magically sealed around the house and she was sure that they held the most precious secrets. She just wanted to strip his presence from every single inch of that place and wouldn’t stop until she did.

She collapsed on the bed, tired but happy. She rolled on her side to face the wall and curled her body, bringing her knees up to her chest. She brought her hands up to hug the pillow under her head and closed her eyes. She would sleep a little bit and then she would search the house again, and finally she would Vanish or burn his belongings and taken great pleasure in doing it.

***

Draco couldn’t believe that a girl would live alone in Knockturn Alley and not even ward her house with jinxes that prevented intruders from coming in. But it was true, because he had just Apparated in Pansy’s living room from outside and nothing had prevented him from doing so.

He took a tentative step and tripped on something on the floor. He raised his wand to illuminate the room and found that there wasn’t a single inch of floor where something hadn’t been discarded there. Draco groaned. Hadn’t he been right to fret? There she had it, that was the clear sign of a robbery. He felt the urge to call her name, but what if she didn’t reply?  _What if she was…_  He shook his head as he pushed that thought at the back of his head. He raised his wand and headed to the bedroom where he had found her the other time.

It was empty, except for a pile of clothes and shoes on the floor. He looked at them closely and saw that there wasn’t a single thing that seemed to belong to Pansy. Everything seemed old and smelled terribly, and it looked like they were piled on the floor as a temporary solution. Draco relaxed at the thought that probably there was no thief there, and that was all Pansy’s doing.

But where was she?

He walked back into the hallway and pushed a door open. A bathroom, an empty bathroom. The tub was filled with clear water and as Draco dunked a finger to check the temperature, he found it icy cold. He frowned slightly and cast a Warming Charm on it, and a soft smile stretched his lips as he imagined Pansy being thankful for that gesture.

He walked out of the bathroom and found himself in front of another door that he had missed before. It was half open and as he looked inside he could spot some toys tossed on the floor. His heart skipped a beat as he came to the understanding that this was the room that Pansy had destined to their child. He pushed the door open as softly as he could and finally saw her.

Indeed, that room was a nursery. A small, pretty nursery that even though it couldn’t have been compared to the size of Scorpius’ room, it would still have been his son’s room. His other son. The one he had with Pansy. Draco’s heart hurt as he thought about him.

On the small bed pushed against the wall, Pansy was sleeping peacefully. She was hugging her pillow with her skinny arms, and the green dress she was wearing had inched up her creamy legs. She was so beautiful, defenceless and inviting that Draco only wanted to lie with her and pull her to his body.

And he did, for they would talk later.

He pocketed his wand and smiled as he stepped towards the bed. He sat on it and slowly lay down behind her. He stilled when she took a sharp breath, but relaxed when she didn’t stir. He wanted her to wake up in his arms. He turned to spoon her from behind and let his arm slide on her stomach, under her breasts. He had to resist the urge to cup one in his palm because that moment was not about that.

He leaned his cheek on her ear and pulled her towards him. He took a deep breath and inhaled her scent. Merlin, he had missed her. He tightened his arm around her and felt her shoulder blades poke into his chest and her buttocks come to rest on his groin. He couldn’t resist, he turned his head and planted a kiss on her temple. Then another one and another one, until he was showering her with soft, delicate kisses. He was so focused on feeling her warm skin under his lips, that he didn’t even notice her hand ghosting on his own on her stomach.

It was only when she breathed, “Draco,” that he stopped and smiled against her skin.

“You looked so—”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and her tone was not what he had expected. She sounded alarmed and Draco couldn’t have imagined why. 

He raised his head to look down at her, but it was too dark to see her expression. “I thought we needed to talk,” he replied unsurely. “I need to talk to you.”

She shook her head before pushing it in the pillow. “I don’t have anything to say to you,” she murmured, her voice broken.

Suddenly, Draco understood that there was something wrong and that this was not what he was expecting when he had decided to come and see her. “Pansy,” he called her soothingly, “what’s wrong?” He planted another kiss on her temple and felt her shiver under his touch.

Pansy grabbed his hand and pushed his arm off of her. She turned and sat up on the bed, pulling her dress down to cover her legs. She shook her head forcefully and with a flick of her wand and a muttered incantation that turned the lights on in the room.

He looked at her from the bed. She was so pale and so small, he just wanted to touch her. To understand what was wrong and to kiss her discomfort away. He stretched a hand towards her and brushed his fingers on her upper arm.

“Don’t,” she warned him, without even turning to look at his face.

He stopped and withdrew. “What’s wrong?” he asked again.

She shook her head and snorted. “Why, what a stupid question, Draco,” she hissed bitterly. “You don’t know?”

Draco sat up too, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He turned to look at her, but still she wouldn’t look back at him. “I don’t,” he replied, trying to sound as calm as possible.

She shook her head and when she finally let her eyes linger on him, he saw how coldly she was looking at him and his heart ached.

“Pansy…” he murmured, stretching a hand towards her.

She jerked away from him and pushed on the bed, until she was sitting at the very bottom. She stood up and walked away, without even so much as turning to face him.

“Hey,” Draco called her, standing up. He walked to her side and took hold of her wrist, making at her turn to look at him. “What’s wrong?” he asked for the third time, impatience and annoyance in his voice.

Pansy flared her nostrils. “You,” she replied coldly. She tried to wriggle free of his hand, but he kept his fingers firmly clutched around her wrist.

“Me?” he asked in disbelief. “What did I do?”

Pansy shook her head bitterly. “You would have let me go to Azkaban at your place,” she hissed, the hatred in her voice was almost palpable and it invested Draco like a cold wind.

His grip on her loosened slightly and again she tried to wiggle free, but his fingers clutched at her tightly when she moved and he felt her muscles jolt, probably in pain. He didn’t release her though. He took a sharp breath. “Now wait a second,” he started, and was startled to hear his voice being so shaky, “that is not—”

“What?” she cut him off. “It is not—what?” She shook her head bitterly. “You would have let me get imprisoned at your place.”

“No,” he assured her hastily, “no, that’s not true.” He swallowed, his breathing was becoming quicker; he was scared. “I would have never let you go to Azkaban. You were never in—”

“You,” she hissed, trying hard to free herself from him, “you said you never came here.” Her eyes were shimmering with tears. “You agreed with what Astoria said.” She brought a hand to his chest to fist his robes. “She said that you didn’t know why someone like me would have written to you and you agreed.”

“But that was the plan,” he replied quickly, “Mr Bolden would have used the excuse of a third person breaking into the flat to kill Borgin.” He smiled weakly. “And it worked…”

Pansy shook her head forcefully. “You don’t see it, do you?” she asked bitterly. “Mr Bolden was not working for you.”

Draco snorted. “Of course he was, I paid him.”

“Blimey, Draco!” she cried. “How can you be so blind?” She grabbed his robes and shook them forcefully. “He was working for Astoria. His story… it would have never worked, not with my letter… Your wife’s deposition, that was what they were after and you…” she shook her head, “you just confirmed everything she said.” She gritted her teeth. “Just to save your skin.”

Draco’s lips parted in surprise. He hadn’t thought about it that way. Mr Bolden was his employee, he was loyal to him. How could he have done that? How could Draco not have noticed? Was Pansy right? Was he really that blind? He shook his head, but he could understand why she was upset now. “No, Pansy,” he murmured, “believe me, I didn’t—”

“If it weren’t for Mr Burke,” she hissed, and finally a tear escaped the corner of her eyes and rolled down her cheek. “If it weren’t for him, I…”

Draco looked concerned at her, he brought his free hand to her face to brush away her tear, but she jerked her head away. “Don’t touch me,” she hissed, wiping away the salt herself, “and let me go!” She tried to squirm away from him, but he still kept her there, afraid that if he let her go she would have disappeared forever.

Draco’s free hand went to her back and he pushed her towards him in a tight, almost painful embrace. She leaned her head on his chest, but Draco suspected she did it only because she had no other place where to put it. He could still feel her moving in his grip as if to try to get away.

“Pansy, please, believe me,” he breathed against her hair, “I would have never let something happen to you.”

She fisted the front of his robe again and he felt the collar digging in his neck as she did. “I don’t believe you,” she hissed.

He swallowed. “You always say that I don’t know how to lie,” he reminded her, “it’s not a lie.”

“Shut up!” she cried. “Just, shut up, Draco. Shut up and go away and never come back.”

He held her even tighter. “No,” he whispered frantically, “no, Pansy, you don’t know what you are saying.” He pushed her against himself as if he could have melted their bodies together. “Tell me about my son, Pansy. Tell me about the baby.”

He knew he had said something wrong when she stilled completely and he couldn’t feel her breathing anymore. He withdrew slightly and she jumped at the opportunity to push him off of her. This time she succeeded as if the anger and bitterness in her gave her strength. She growled at the back of her throat for the effort of getting him off of her, and she stumbled against the wall and fell to the floor when he let her go.

He stepped towards her and knelt to help her up, but she pushed his hand away and stood up herself. She looked at him with pain on her face. “How do you know?” she hissed.

Draco stood up too. “Mr Burke,” he murmured, “after the trial I went to—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she cut him off icily.

Draco darkened. “But I want to know,” he murmured weakly, “I want to know what he looked like.” He smiled softly at her. “Please.”

“No!” she cried, “I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

Draco took a deep breath. “But Pansy, I do, I need to—”

She brought her hands to her face and crumpled on the floor again. “No!” she screamed. “Shut up! Why do you want to torture me?”

Draco felt his heart ache. “I don’t,” he whispered anxiously. “I swear I don’t.”

“Then go away,” she cried between sobs. She looked at him through teary eyes. “Go away and never come back,” she continued, her voice shaky, “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he whispered frantically. He felt his heart being yanked from his chest at her words.

She nodded, a glint of madness in her eyes. She leaned against the wall to stand up again. “I hate you, Draco Malfoy,” she gritted through her teeth, stressing every word, “I don’t want to see you anymore.” She swallowed a stray tear. “Don’t come here,” she hissed, “don’t write to me. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even think about me.” She looked away. “Forget about me.”

Draco’s head was spinning. Never, not even in his wildest dreams, had he thought he would hear such words from Pansy. They hurt. They hurt more than the curse that Potter had thrown him in the bathroom in their Sixth Year. They hurt more than every single cruel comment his father had made in the past about him. They hurt like hell and the more time passed the deeper they sunk into his brain and the more pain he felt.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he murmured weakly, “you don’t mean it…”

“I do,” she hissed, “get out of my house. Get out of my life.” She looked at him with so much detestation, that Draco had to bring a hand to his chest to see if something had stabbed him for real or not. “Go away or I’ll call the Ministry to tell them what happened that night.” Her tone was icy cold now.

Draco’s mouth hung open in surprise, his eyes were wide and filled with disbelief and pain. She couldn’t be serious. He didn’t believe her. “You wouldn’t,” he breathed feebly.

“Try me,” she hissed.

Draco swallowed. “Pansy, I—”

“Get out!” she bellowed, cutting him off.

He stilled, looking at her without fully understanding what was happening. She was pushing him away. Forever. That couldn’t have been true. That couldn’t have happened. He had killed her husband, they had gone through a trial and he had thought that they would have come out of that mess stronger and closer. Instead, he had lost her and somehow he felt like it was all his fault.

“Pansy…” he murmured one last time, but when her cold stare pierced his head from side to side he suffocated the words he wanted to say and looked at her with pain-filled eyes, hoping she would cave in. But she didn’t, and the more she looked at him, the more he ached.

He lowered his eyes and sucked in his breath, before focusing on Wiltshire and his Manor and Disapparating from that place.

When he Apparated right inside the Gates, he fell on his hands and knees. Before he could even understand what was happening, snow started to fall all around him and he stared as some flakes landed on his hands and melted away. He looked up and saw no clouds in the sky. He took a deep breath and tried to calm himself down, the snow stopped falling as suddenly as it had started.

Was it really over? Had he really lost her forever? No, that was impossible. She would have come around. He knew she would. She had to. They couldn’t survive apart. She would realise that and she would come crawling back to him. He just had to wait.

***

Pansy was sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. Her head was hidden between her arms, her knees were drawn to her chest.

She was crying. She was crying in despair, her small body shaking with sobs from head to toe. She could feel the tears spilling from her eyes and running down her cheeks and onto her neck. They were uncomfortable, but she didn’t care. She let her wailings echo on the walls of the flat, she didn’t care if some neighbour could hear her.

She had all the right to cry. She had lost the single most important person in her life and she wasn’t convinced that it was all Draco’s fault. Maybe it was her fault as well. She shook her head, tears spilling on the floor. She might have behaved impulsively, but she had to remember Draco’s words at the trial. She let out a louder sob and reminded herself just how little he had showed to care about her back then.

And now he was gone. Forever. And her life would be so much… better? Worse? She didn’t know and she didn’t want to think about it. She just wanted to wail in peace until she had no more tears to shed. Until sleep took away her pain. Until she had forgotten about him.

Because he was really gone.

 _Forever_.

***

“ _Alohomora_!” cried Pansy for the umpteenth time, and for the umpteenth time the drawer didn’t move. She was growing impatient. She had managed to open every single drawer or cabinet or box that had a lock with that spell, but this drawer – the one in Borgin’s bedside table – seemed to be protected with an incantation too powerful to be breached with a simple Unlocking Charm. To Pansy, it only meant that Borgin must have put something important or precious in there, and with that thought her desire to yank it open was driving her almost crazy.

She pointed her wand towards the drawer again. “ _Diffindo_ ,” she said, but her spell only smashed against the piece of furniture without causing it any damage. Pansy let out a growl of irritation, raising her hands above her head. Now she was convinced, there was something important in there, and since the will stated that he had left her everything, that something was  _hers_.

She tried an assortment of other spells without even coming close to scratching the surface of the drawer, until she was left there, panting for the effort and boiling with rage.

Clearly, that was the wrong approach. The object was spell-proofed and she could have spent days casting incantation after incantation against it and still come to nothing. What to do? She didn’t want to use a potion, it could have damaged whatever the drawer contained, and she certainly couldn’t have used her bare hands and her almost non-existent force. She let out a cry of frustration and sat on the bed.

Could she hate Borgin even more now that he was dead? The answer was yes, because she just couldn’t believe that he would torture her even from the hereafter. She shook her head. She should have expected that. She just wanted to destroy every single thing that had once belonged to him, if it weren’t for the fact that now it all belonged to her. All of them, even the most dangerous and devious artefacts that he had in the shop downstairs.

Pansy’s head snapped up. Of course! She had a room filled with artefacts. Of course, there would have to be something that would come handy at that very moment. She had catalogued most of the recent ones herself, she just had to think hard at what object might have worked.

She stood up and walked briskly towards the door, climbing down the stairs three steps at a time. She jumped the last two steps and landed right next to the empty mice cage. She had freed them in Knockturn Alley, and they had looked at her with their beady eyes for the briefest of moments, as if to thank her, and then disappeared from her sight.

She walked towards the cabinet where Borgin used to keep the notebooks with his notes on the artefacts, and opened it. She took one out, choosing it randomly from a pile.

 _Mummy’s hand. Cursed Feather. Hangman’s Rope. Cursed Necklace. Mask of the Devil. Bones of Destiny. Cursed Coins_ …

She felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach as she stopped and looked at the description of the coins. Under the notes on the mouse, there was a paragraph on how the coins worked on a person. She felt nauseated by the fact that he had used her as an experiment, not only torturing her but testing the artefact on her. She closed the book and threw it away.

She darkened and picked another one. And then another one and another one, until a small pile of notebooks were lying on the floor. There wasn’t much that would have come handy to her in there, but she knew that she couldn’t stop. She took another notebook.

_Bohemian Cards. Glass Eye. Spiked Wand. Dissolving Crayons. Book of Dark Spells. Soul Sucking Camera._

She stopped and went back.  _Dissolving Crayons._ What where those things? She looked at the description that was given of the artefact.  _Harmless. The crayons dissolve any surface that they come into contact with, even when said surface has been protected by a spell. Particularly useful in case of a robbery._

That sounded just right. She stood up and went to the front of the shop. The place was still a mess from that night, when she had gathered as many artefacts as she could to use on Borgin. She never got the chance to, though.

She raised her wand. “ _Accio Dissolving Crayons_ ,” she said out loud.

A colourful box flew into her hand with a rattling noise. She looked at it. It looked like a normal box of crayons, with a sun and a big flower on the top. They looked harmless, he had been right, but she had come to know that nothing was what it seemed in that place. She picked up a pair of gloves from the counter and decided that if the crayons didn’t work, she would set the bedside table on fire. She bit her bottom lip. No, she wouldn’t. She needed to know what he was hiding.

Pansy went back upstairs and into the bedroom. She wore the gloves, and opened the lid of the box. The crayons looked absolutely ordinary to her. She took the blue one and stared closely at it. Could something so common be exactly what she needed?

She fell on her knees in front of the bedside table and drew a line on the drawer, moving back a little to see how it reacted with the surface of the piece of furniture. At first, nothing happened and Pansy just sighed in annoyance. Then, slowly, she saw the line that she had drawn cut into the wood. It burned the material until there was no more blue to be seen, and then stopped.

Pansy’s lips stretched into a smile. It was working! She brought the crayon to the drawer again and started to draw a circle. She looked at it as it created a crack in the wood, burning the material. She continued and continued to draw over the same line until the crayon had cut through the whole width of the drawer. Finally, after almost half an hour and a slight pain in her wrist, the circle fell to the floor and Pansy managed to put her tiny hand into the opening.

She was right. There was a pile of envelopes there, probably bills or cheques or important documents that held secrets and treasures. She drew them out and smiled. Finally! The last secret that Borgin had kept from her. She hoped it was going to be money, and a lot of that.

She sat on the bed and looked at them, frowning slightly. They were letters addressed to Borgin and, Pansy was sure, she had already seen that writing. She couldn’t remember where, but she had. It was vaguely familiar. How could it be? Was that a secret correspondence? She skimmed through the envelopes and saw that the writing on the first few ones was different from the later ones. And, from their state, the letters seemed to be in chronological order.

She wondered what they contained. Who and why would send so many letters to Borgin? The latest ones were quite recent too. She was confused. She shook her head, since she had the letters right in her hands, she just had to open them to see what secrets he kept from her.

She opened the first one and suddenly she understood why she had already seen that writing.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _I hope your affairs are going well. I’m sure you have a lot of work nowadays, especially now following the fall of Lord Voldemort when so many wizards and witches need to find a trusted person to whom they can discreetly sell some items that might be cause of embarrassment with the Ministry. I know my husband has already planned a visit to your shop, for he considers you the best in the business. I dearly hope that you are not exhausting yourself with work though, because I would be supremely unhappy to hear that. And it is exactly with that thought in mind that I have decided to write to you._
> 
> _I’m sure a man such as yourself can cope with the amount of work that he will have to face in the upcoming months. You are so well-organised, I’m positive a new wave of clients will only bring you delight. In case, though, you find yourself in need of a helping hand, I feel confident to suggest to you to use the help of a certain Miss Parkinson. She is a fresh-out-of-Hogwarts, intelligent witch with a keen eye for detail and a sharp mind. She has never worked before, but she is quick to learn and willing to work hard. She was top of her class at School and had been made Prefect in her Fifth Year. Professor Snape was very fond of her and always praised her Potions skills. She is extremely good at interpersonal relationships and would surely be a valuable addition to your shop. The fact that she is reasonably pretty should also be a perk, as I’m sure you understand how important one’s image is._
> 
> _Furthermore, I would like to add that she is a family friend, and we would be incredibly displeased if you wouldn’t at least give her a chance to intern in your shop._
> 
> _I do hope to hear from you soon – the question is quite urgent indeed._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Narcissa Malfoy_

The fact that Narcissa had written a letter like that to Borgin didn’t upset Pansy in the least. Narcissa had never kept it secret that she was the one who had arranged her interview with Borgin, and even though she had never seen that letter before, she wasn’t surprised. Narcissa had, of course, praised her beyond recognition, but Pansy knew that it was only to let her land that job and make her stay away from the Manor and from Draco.

There was something that upset Pansy though, and that was why Borgin would keep a letter like that, and especially why he would keep it in a place like that. As if it were some kind of treasure.

She folded the letter and put it away before picking up a second one. Similar envelope, same writing.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _My husband and I would like to thank you for giving dear Miss Parkinson the opportunity to apply for a job at your shop. She will be at Borgin and Burkes tomorrow morning as you requested. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied with her services._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Narcissa Malfoy_

Pansy folded it back and picked the third one.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _We are glad you found Miss Parkinson’s job interview satisfying. We are confident that she will start at the shop as soon as possible. I’m sure you won’t regret employing her._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Narcissa Malfoy_

Pansy shook her head bitterly. She was sure that Borgin must have regretted her employment now. She picked another letter and noticed that the writing was different. It wasn’t Narcissa’s, even though it looked equally graceful, it was slightly less secure. She started reading.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _I hope you don’t find it inappropriate if I reply to your letter, instead of Mrs Malfoy. She herself had deemed me more suitable to answer your doubts about Miss Parkinson._
> 
> _But I’m afraid I haven’t introduced myself. How rude, indeed! My name is Astoria Greengrass, the youngest daughter of Mr and Mrs Hyperion Greengrass and soon to be married to Master Draco Malfoy._

Pansy stopped reading, her eyes wide. Why would Astoria write to Borgin? To answer what doubts about her? What was that? Why did that devil of a woman write to her husband? She glanced at the envelopes and saw that there were a lot of them. Too many. Had they had a secret correspondence? What would they talk about? About her? Why? Astoria was considered suitable to answer Borgin’s doubts about her? What doubts? She had to keep reading because curiosity was killing her.

> _Mrs Malfoy is certainly a gracious host as I am staying at Malfoy Manor, and knowing how much I care for Miss Parkinson and how much I would like to help her, Mrs Malfoy told me about your letter and suggested that I write to let you know that I might have a solution to your problem. I know perfectly well that Miss Parkinson has only just begun at the shop and I’m glad you already find her a great help. But you are right, you can’t possibly pay her more than what you suggested. It sounds like a fair and more than generous amount of money for a first-time-worker salary. About Miss Parkinson’s concerns that she won’t be able to find an accommodation, you won’t have to worry. Let me take care of that, I know just the right place for her and I’m sure she will stop complaining about the money._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Astoria Greengrass_

Pansy’s hands were crumbling the sides of the letter, and she wasn’t even aware of that. That little tart made Pansy boil with rage.  _More than generous amount of money,_  how could she say something like that? She who had never had to work a day in her life, who lived in a Manor in beautiful Wiltshire, who was richer than what most people in Britain would ever be. Pansy was sure Astoria did laugh at her when Borgin had written to let them know that she was complaining about her salary. She was sure she mocked her as she sat with her sister and her future mother-in-law. She tried to tell herself that she didn’t care, but she knew she was lying. She just wanted to use the coins on Astoria at that moment.

She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. She picked another one and started to read it.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _See? There was no reason for you to fret. You managed to keep Miss Parkinson without having to overpay her. I’m afraid we all know that our dear girl can be a little too much covetous for her own good, but Mr and Mrs Malfoy agree with me when I say that she is absolutely worth every single penny._
> 
> _Please, do write again if you have any more concerns about Miss Parkinson._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Astoria Greengrass_

Pansy gritted her teeth. Well, wasn’t Astoria a lovely person? Helping Borgin with his problems and creating some more for her. She remembered those first years at the shop, with not enough money to get through the month, in her small flat in Diagon Alley.

What had Astoria written? That she had taken care of her accommodation problem? Pansy had been contacted by Miss Strasears a week after she had arrived in London. Had that been arranged by Astoria? Was she the reason why she hadn’t managed to get a raise? Because she had found that incredibly cheap place where to live? How very kind of her indeed…

The following few letters were particularly uninteresting. Apparently, Borgin wrote to Astoria to tell her his doubts, problems and achievements, and she usually wrote back to him with set phrases such as ‘everything will be better’ or ‘I’m glad business is going so well’ or also ‘yes, the wedding was a success, wasn’t it?’. Sometimes Pansy was not even mentioned in Astoria’s letters and she wondered how annoyed the girl must have been when Borgin indulged in talking about himself instead of giving her news of her.

Then, finally, she found a letter, one that might have been written sometime after Draco and Astoria’s wedding, and the content made her blood freeze.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _As you said, yes, we are now trying hard to give the Malfoy household an heir. I’m confident you understand how important that is, to have someone to carry out your name and inherit the treasures that one worked hard to obtain. I’m sure it will not be long before I become pregnant with a son – Malfoys always have male heirs._
> 
> _Concerning what Mr Nott had said to you at my wedding, I’m sure he didn’t mean to sound disrespectful. We both know that you and Miss Parkinson are not equals and I’m confident that he wasn’t suggesting that you have any kind of relationship – apart from a business one – with her. That said, Mr Borgin, you have to consider the fact that she is a pretty, young lady and that she has a fertile womb – even though, you are right, she is a little too small to seem able to bear children, but I’m sure that you can feed her until she becomes a strong and willing broodmare._
> 
> _But I won’t push the subject any further._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Astoria Malfoy_

Pansy was glowering at her words. A  _broodmare_? Is that what Astoria had called her? How dared she? And something told Pansy that the little devil would have pushed the subject much further than that if she hadn’t been a lady.

There were many other letters that followed that one, and many occasional references to Pansy and the fact that she would have been suitable for bearing Borgin’s children had been made. Borgin might have been too daft to notice, but Pansy was sure that Astoria was a devil and she had constructed a little snare for them both. Anything to keep Pansy away from Draco.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _I think it’s a wonderful idea! You should definitely ask Miss Parkinson to marry you! That would come to the advantage of you both. First, you wouldn’t have to pay her anymore, and I’m sure that having her in the house won’t be too much of an expense for you. She doesn’t eat much and I’m sure she has gotten used to live on the bare necessities. You did well to keep her on a minimal salary for all these years, you trained her in the art of saving money without even noticing. Secondly, she will be ever so grateful to you, for you are giving her more than she has ever imagined by marrying an important and respected man such as yourself. You should ask her straightaway. I’m sure she will be thrilled._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Astoria Malfoy_
> 
> _PS—How curious indeed that Miss Parkinson asks to go meeting Mr Malfoy or his clients every Wednesday afternoon. But I have no doubt that their relationship is strictly business-related._

She tossed the letter on the bed and picked another one.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _I feel so sorry for the way that little, ungrateful woman treated you. I’m sure you don’t deserve to be refused, especially by someone like her, who has no status or money, or it’s not even a pureblood such as yourself or me. My parents too miss the days when all that counted was the purity of the blood that ran in our veins. Was Miss Parkinson born fifty years ago, she would have never dared to refuse your respectable proposal._
> 
> _Evidently, with a secure accommodation and the salary you give her, she isn’t too keen to marry and give up her freedom._
> 
> _I think I can help with that, though. I am sure I can persuade her landlady that she is no more a suitable tenant. She is already quite behind with her rent, I’m sure I will not find it difficult to convince her to terminate their contract._
> 
> _Yours sincerely,_
> 
> _Astoria Malfoy_

Pansy gritted her teeth. She had no words to describe Astoria. Even the foulest language would have not done her justice. She was a snake, a devil incarnate and Pansy felt like she hated her much more than she hated Borgin right at that moment. Yes, Borgin was evil and devious, but she was starting to believe that he had been a puppet in the hands of Draco’s wife.

And Miss Strasears? She had thought so high of her, she was so fond of that woman whom she had never even seen, just because she had always been patient with her and her late payments. Until the moment she had kicked her into the street. She had hated her then. If Pansy hadn’t been kicked out, maybe she wouldn’t have accepted to marry Borgin. She shook her head, of course she wouldn’t have! Astoria was so good at controlling people, even the people that she…

Pansy raised her eyes to stare in front of her. The night before her wedding, Lucius had said something. What had he said? Something about word games… Yes!  _“It’s our dear Astoria, she is so very interested in word games. She amuses us awfully.”_

Pansy took a sharp breath. She raised her wand and, biting hard on her bottom lip, she murmured, “ _Flagrate_.” She wrote the name of her landlady of when she still lived in Diagon Alley up in the air: GEORGINA STRASEARS. The letters glowed red in front of her. She looked darkly at them before flicking her wand. The letters moved around as if they were trying to rearrange themselves in a different way. They did, and Pansy felt her stomach churning as she looked at the name that they were spelling now: they read ASTORIA GREENGRASS in a crimson colour that looked almost menacing to her now.

She flicked her wand again and they fell on the floor, dissolving like sugar in a cup of tea. She felt sick, she felt stupid. Had Lucius tried to tell her something? Did he even know? Why had she been so slow? What kind of name was ‘Strasears’ anyway? She gritted her teeth. And what if she had known back then? Would that have changed something? She shook her head. Nothing. Not a damn thing. She had been at the mercy of Astoria ever since she arrived in London.

Pansy had screwed Astoria’s husband and as a payback Astoria had screwed Pansy. And she had done it so well, Pansy felt that if someone had kept scores of their skirmish they would have surely found Astoria to be the winner.

She picked another letter.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _You are definitely too gentle with that girl. Staying in your shop at night because she doesn’t have a place to stay… You surely don’t run a charity as you rightfully pointed out. And I can’t believe that she still refuses you! She is probably expecting you to take care of her for free because you are her only friend. I think you ought to let her get a taste of what it means to have nobody to take care of her. I’m sure she’ll come around after she has to sleep in the streets._
> 
> _Kick her out. She will thank you one day._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Astoria Malfoy_

Pansy found out that her hands were trembling with rage as she tried to take out the next letter from the envelope.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _I’m so happy to hear such good news! And I can reply right now at your invitation and tell you that Mr Malfoy and I will surely attend your wedding! I wouldn’t miss the sheer joy on yours and Miss Parkinson’s face for anything in the world!_
> 
> _I’m glad my suggestion to let Miss Parkinson taste life in the street came useful to you. I’m sure she will be an obedient wife, and if from time to time she’ll forget where her place is, you will surely know how to remind her. Pain and fear are much more effective than love and gentleness when it’s up to correct one’s behaviour._
> 
> _I’m also glad you are keeping your bride virginal until the night of your wedding. But, alas! I feel obliged to let you know that that practice is not very common anymore, especially amongst witches and wizards whose blood is soiled. That said, I’m sure Miss Parkinson will be as pure as the snow, and if she is not I’m confident you’ll find the right way to punish her for her licentiousness._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Astoria Malfoy_

Pansy swallowed. She had understated the danger she had dodged by being intact the night of her wedding. She felt grateful that Lucius had given her the potion and lucky that she hadn’t let Draco take her before her wedding. Had Lucius known that too? How much exactly did he know? She took a deep breath. It didn’t matter, for she was not important to him. She had been when she was younger, and he had used her tiny teenage body for his pleasure, but now… She was sure he wouldn’t have wasted time on her and would have easily sacrificed her if he had to.

She continued.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _I have to say that I’m surprised but extremely glad that Mrs Borgin was pure. Now all you have to do is to produce an heir to your fortune. I am sure she’ll get pregnant in no time. You just keep trying every night._
> 
> _I also have something to announce to you. I am pregnant myself! I think it was your wedding that finally blessed our union, for it happened the night that you and Mrs Borgin tied the knot. I am confident it’ll be a son, but I haven’t been visited by a Healer yet. I will let you know because I’m sure you want me to keep you informed._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Astoria Malfoy_

The following letters talked about Astoria’s pregnancy rather than Borgin and Pansy. A string of boring details about the baby and the mother in tow. She hoped that Borgin had fallen asleep reading them.

Then, another letter caught Pansy’s attention. It seemed to have been sent before the coin incident.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _You shouldn’t think those negative thoughts. I’m sure there is nothing wrong with you. If Mr Burke says that you are unable to have children that doesn’t mean it’s true. He is nowhere close to being a Healer, he is only an apothecary. He surely can’t be considered a reliable source of information._
> 
> _Keep trying. I’m sure Miss Parkinson will be thankful._
> 
> _Astoria Malfoy_

Weirdly, in the same envelope there was another letter in a different writing.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _I hope you don’t mind if Astoria showed me the last letter you sent her, but she was worried for you and I would never forgive myself if I had some information that might help you and didn’t share it._
> 
> _This might be absolutely nonsense, naturally, because I’m sure that Mrs Borgin would never be as stupid as to do what I’m about to suggest, but there’s no harm trying, right?_
> 
> _Mrs Borgin used to take an anti-contraceptive potion when she came to visit Malfoy Manor. I am certain of that because I was the one procuring it for her. I have no idea why she would she need it, since you found her still intact on your wedding night, but nonetheless she did take it. Naturally, considering how much you want a child, she surely won’t be as inconsiderate as to keep taking it at this time, but you never know, right? She might feel like she is not ready to have children, or might just be an act of defiance from her part. Either way, you should check amongst her personal belongings for a small, pear-shaped phial with a thick red liquid inside. There might be more than one, she always used to stock them up when she was at the Manor. She has to take a phial every first of the month for it to make it effective. You will surely find her in need of taking a new phial on the night of the first of the upcoming month._
> 
> _If she is really on the potion, her disobedience is beyond control and you should give her a lesson that she won’t forget._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Narcissa Malfoy_

Pansy closed her eyes. Everything was making sense now. How he had known about the potion, about the time and day when she would take it. Of course, he would have never found out by himself, he was not as intelligent as he thought he was. Narcissa had told him. Pansy could very well believe it, but still, it burnt to know that she would even suggest to him that he punish her. And in a way that she wouldn’t forget. She automatically brought her hand to her side, where the scar lay under her robes. She would have never forgotten, of that she was sure.

Suddenly, she wondered if being with Draco had been worth all of that. For the first time, she was glad that she had told him that she didn’t want to see him anymore. There was no more Borgin to hurt her now, but still… who would have known what kind of tortures those witches would have come up with? She hated them so much, so much she would have loved to push a cursed coin into their stomachs. Or on the smooth skin of their faces.

The letters that followed were full of compliments for the way Mr Borgin had handled the situation. More than once, Astoria asked for details on the way the coins had burned Pansy’s skin, the shape, the pain, the sound of her screams. Astoria was glad that it had been so effective to reduce her to almost complete silence and make her much more subdued. Then, every now and again she wrote about her pregnancy, then her delivery and her son. Finally, she congratulated for Pansy’s pregnancy.

She read another letter.

> _Dear Mr Borgin,_
> 
> _Now that I have little Scorpius, I’m sure you’ll understand that my time has become sparer. But nonetheless, I want you to know that I will never stop writing to you when you ask for my advice or for a solution to yet another problem that your wife is causing you._
> 
> _I have to admit that I am surprised just as much as you are that Mrs Borgin would continue to find excuses to go out in the afternoon. Especially on Wednesday afternoon since, if I remember correctly, wasn’t that the day she used to meet my husband in Diagon Alley for the job he had assigned her? I’m afraid to admit that my husband goes to London from time to time on Wednesday. I’m sure that is totally unrelated though._
> 
> _Yet, one is never too careful. I know I said that you are surely healthy and able to produce an heir, and I would never state the contrary, but you never know what kind of vipers one has in one’s bosom. I don’t know if you understand what I mean, Mr Borgin, but Mrs Borgin might have not been as true a wife as we have always thought her to be._
> 
> _You should make sure that the child that she has in her womb is really your child. I hate the very thought of it, but I’m afraid my husband has always had a soft spot for Mrs Borgin, and blond hair and fair skin are trademarks of the Malfoy household._
> 
> _If you find the child to have such traits – or any other you don’t recognise, for I know that Mr Zabini also seemed to be friendly with your wife – I’m sure you understand that you’ll be forced to take care of the situation. I’m sure Mr Malfoy – or any other person involved – would thank you for your actions. You just have to make sure not to raise someone else’s child as your own. You need an heir that will carry on your name, not an impostor._
> 
> _I’m confident you’ll know how to take care of that._
> 
> _Don’t let the mother hold the baby, for it will only be worse for both of you._
> 
> _Best wishes,_
> 
> _Astoria Malfoy_

Pansy slid from the bed to her knees on the floor. She brushed her hair away from her face as she felt her stomach tighten and a retch of vomit rise to her mouth. She leaned on her hands and pushed her head forward. She hadn’t had much to eat in the past days, and her vomit tasted more like bile than anything else. She threw up until her stomach contracted around nothing.

She didn’t move for a long time, her body shaken by slight tremors as she stayed on all fours. The pungent smell of her own sickness made her even sicker, and all she wanted was to Scour it clean with a flick of her wand. She couldn’t move though. She felt empty and stupid.

Would Borgin have kept the child if Astoria hadn’t told him all these things? Would he not have killed him? How could Astoria write those things? Pansy’s child was Draco’s, he was Scorpius’ half-brother. Astoria knew and she wanted him dead. She wanted the child of the other woman reduced to nothing. She was a mother herself and yet, she couldn’t bear to let Pansy be a mother. Not to Draco’s son.

Pansy pushed herself up and stretched her hand behind her back to seize her wand from the bed. She pointed it towards the puddle of vomit in front of her. “ _Scourgify_ ,” she murmured, her voice hoarse, her throat in pain.

She didn’t want to read any other letter now. She just felt completely empty, as if all of the things that had happened to her could have been avoided if this secret correspondence that she discovered had never taken place. Astoria was a puppeteer and she enjoyed to manoeuvre people to do what she wanted. Pansy had never suspected that she wasn’t cruel, but killing an innocent child… That went well beyond Pansy’s expectations.

Now she wished that Draco had killed Astoria rather than Borgin.

She shook her head. No, she didn’t wish that Astoria was dead, she wished for her to be alive and at her mercy to do as she pleased. Pansy had a whole shop full of dark artefacts that she would have put to use. She would have made her scream until she lost her mind.

Absentmindedly, she took another letter. There were only few left since Borgin died shortly after the delivery. In all of them she congratulated him for the way he handled the situation.

She approved every single thing. The murder of the baby, her imprisonment, the fact that he had kept her wand away from her. She agreed that he had to keep her alive and she urged him to try to have another baby. She wanted him to use the Cursed Coins again and wanted him to describe Pansy’s reaction another time when that happened.

In her last letter she told him that he should have started trying to impregnate her again if he thought that she was ready. She suggested to him he took her with force and didn’t show any gentleness, if he wanted her to learn.

Then nothing else. The letters stopped and, for a long moment, so did Pansy’s heart. She would have cried, had she not dried her eyes out already in the past months. She tossed the last letter on the bed next to the others and pointed her wand at them. She would have burned them until there was nothing left of those horrible words that a monster of a woman had found the courage to write on parchment. She would have destroyed them forever.

She raised her wand, but stopped suddenly. No, no, she wouldn’t. She would have never been able to get her hands on Astoria, but there was someone else who could have. She knew she had told him not to write to her or visit her or think about her, but she had to send him the letters. She had to let him know what kind of devil he had married.

Yes, Pansy would send the letters to Draco. That would be her revenge. She would show him how his own wife had killed his son. She would hurt her. She would hurt them both.

***

Draco was beyond himself when he received a package from Pansy. He knew she hadn’t been serious when she told him to forget her. He knew she couldn’t resist him.

And there he had proof of it. She hadn’t sent him a letter, but a whole parcel, addressed to him and him only, to open in his study. He couldn’t wait. He sat at his desk and hastily started to tear the paper from the package. A small note flew out and landed on the table. He picked it up and looked at it. He frowned at her words, then he looked at the content of the parcel and frowned even deeper.

A stack of envelopes.

What was he supposed to do with them? He didn’t know, but he would find out soon, for he took the one on the top and opened it and started to read it, surprised to see his mother’s writing in front of his eyes.

***

Draco pushed Astoria against the wall of their bedroom, one of his strong hands clutching strongly at her long neck as he made her stand on tiptoes. His other hand on the wall next to her face.

She brought her own hands to his as she tried to loosen his iron grip around her throat.

“I only have to squeeze to kill you,” he growled.

She took a sharp gulp of air. “I only have to scream for Scorpius to hear it,” she panted.

Draco gritted his teeth and let her throat go. She slumped on the floor, coughing and panting sharply. He grabbed her soft and beautiful curls and brought her up to her feet, tilting her head until she was looking up at him and her flushed throat was exposed to him.

“Why?” he growled, pulling at her hair.

She bit her bottom lip to stifle a whimper and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Because she took something of mine,” she replied and her voice managed to be like ice despite her situation of disadvantage, “and I wanted to take something of hers.”

Draco punched the wall near her head and she closed her eyes at the sudden movement. “Except, I’m not yours, Astoria,” he barked.

When she opened her eyes, he saw that they were full of hatred. “You are,” she hissed, “by law.” 

He yanked at her hair until she had to bring her hands to her scalp to try to push him away. “You killed my son,” he hissed back.

She let out a soft cry as some hair was pulled from her head. “Your son is sleeping in his bedroom,” she spat, “that was your  _bastard_.”

Draco let her go and stepped back, his eyes fixed on the woman he had married. He shook his head forcefully. “Pansy is right,” he hissed, “you are the devil.”

Astoria’s hands went to her hair to fluff up her curls and get the shed locks off of her. Her glare could have frozen a cup of water. She looked at Draco for a long moment then she cracked a cruel smile. “She would know, wouldn’t she?” she asked, her voice icy. “After all, she is no better than I am, she is a  _murderer_.”

Draco flared his nostrils and took a step towards her. “She is not a murderer,” he snapped.

Astoria didn’t seem intimidated by him. “Even if the Wizengamot found her innocent, that doesn’t change the fact that she killed Mr Borgin,” she hissed coldly.

Draco cocked his head and smirked cruelly. He closed the distance between the two of them and grabbed her upper arms until he could feel her muscles shift under his digits. “Oh, but she didn’t kill him,” he growled softly, “ _I did_.”

Astoria’s eyes widened as she swallowed. “You are lying,” she blurted out, sudden panic in her voice at the revelation. “Pansy did it… she did…”

Draco brought one hand to brush away a curl from her face. “What, Astoria?” he asked softly. “Are you scared? Do you not think of me as able to kill a man?” He looked into her eyes and was pleased to see them filling with fear. “Do you not think that I would be able to kill you?”

She tried to wiggle away from his hands, but he kept her in place. “Then why don’t you?” she asked, her voice shaky.

He let her go, looked away and stepped back. “Don’t tempt me,” he hissed.

She swallowed loudly. “Draco…”

“If I don’t kill you it’s only because of our son,” he growled. He looked back at her. “But don’t think, even for the briefest moment, that I wouldn’t delight in seeing your little body twitching under an Unforgivable Curse.” His eyes pierced through hers. “Just like Borgin did to Pansy.”

Astoria lowered her eyes. Draco was excited to see her discomfort. “Then you would be just like him,” she murmured softly.

Draco clenched his jaw. “I never said I wasn’t.” And as Astoria looked at him with big, scared eyes, he left the room that he didn’t want to share with her anymore.


	12. A Life without Him

***

Pansy sat at the kitchen table as she read the letter that she got from the Ministry. There was surely some mistake. That couldn’t have been right. She read it three times before the words started to actually make sense in her head.

 _Mr Burke was dead._  Only a few months after his imprisonment he had killed himself in his cell in Azkaban. One of the guards had found his lifeless body in a corner, his eyes and his mouth open wide, his muscles already stiff with rigor mortis, his skin the colour of ashes. At the time Pansy received the letter, he had been dead for more than a week, but the Ministry had waited to divulge the news because Mr Burke was a skilful potion maker… and what if he wasn’t really dead? What if he was feigning to get out of prison? After all, he had killed himself by creating a poison with herbs and ingredients that he had found on the walls of his cell, he might as well have put together a potion that made him look like he was dead.

After a week, though, they came to the conclusion that he had indeed taken a poison and that he was indeed dead. Since he didn’t have any relatives, the Ministry was to take care of the remains. A small function would be held at West Norwood Cemetery, next Friday at sunset.

But the reason why the Ministry took the time to write to Pansy a letter, instead of letting her know through the Daily Prophet like everybody else, was that she had been mentioned in Mr Burke’s will. Or even better, she had been made his only heir.

Apparently, the will had been changed by Mr Burke himself the week preceding the trial, and it clearly stated that he had left her everything he had. The apothecary, the flat on top of it, and a vault at Gringotts.

Pansy put the letter down and thought that there was something wrong with her. Once she would have rejoiced at the thought of inheriting a shop, a flat and a vault, but now, all she wanted was for that letter to be a mistake and to be able to see Mr Burke out of Azkaban one day. The thought that it would never happen made her hunch her back and lower her eyes as a sigh of despair left her lips.

He was the closest thing to a friend that she had had, and now that he was gone, Pansy was alone. Alone and unhappy. She felt as if she had gone through so much pain and despair in her life just to find herself back at the beginning once more, alone again.

Except she was not. This time she had money and freedom. Even though she was unsure how to use either.

***

Pansy had thought that she would have spent much more time trying to decide what to do with the two flats, two shops and two vaults that she now owned. She didn’t.

After all, it was an easy decision.

First of all, the vaults. She found out that having a vault at Gringotts was not as costly as she had expected – after all, Borgin would have never had one if it was – but nonetheless, two vaults were still quite the expense. Her decision was quick, she asked the bank to close Borgin’s and all its content to be transferred to Mr Burke’s. She attended the day of the transfer because she herself still didn’t know exactly what the vaults contained.

She found out that in both of them there were indeed Galleons, and lots of them, but also artefacts and jewels in Borgin’s vault and recipes and books in Mr Burke’s. She asked the goblins to test everything there was in her late husband’s vault for dark magic, but everything seemed in order and the transfer and closing of the vault was a success.

Secondly, the flats. It didn’t take her long to decide that she wanted to live on top of the apothecary. Any place would have been good, really, as long as she didn’t have to stay in that flat where she had been tortured, imprisoned, and raped. She still didn’t possess too many things – but she had a feeling that that would have changed soon. Oh! How she longed for some shopping! – so she hurriedly packed everything she owned and Apparated in the small flat on the other side of Knockturn Alley.

She had only seen it once before, but she knew that it was clean and small, perfect for a single person such as herself, and since settling down with someone was the farthest thing from her mind at the moment, she knew she would be happy in that place.

She tried to rent out Mr Borgin’s flat, but apparently wizards and witches didn’t like places where a murder had occurred. Dark magic usually settled there, and many times the ghost of the victim stayed behind to haunt the place, and that was a real nuisance for whoever had to live there.

So, for now, Borgin’s flat was left empty. The only good thing was that even though it didn’t bring her any money, equally it didn’t cost her anything.

As a last thing, she decided to work in the apothecary. She had had enough of dark artefacts and slimy figures who only wanted to get rid of dangerous items. She had had enough of Borgin and Burkes. She needed a change of scenery. And she had always been good potions. Even Snape considered her amongst his most skilled pupils. Plus, she could have access to any kind of potion and ointment and concoction that she needed. And why not? She could create her own as well.

Surprisingly, she didn’t care that the apothecary was much less profitable than the shop. She couldn’t stand to work in Borgin and Burkes a minute more. And it hadn’t been difficult for her to find someone who wanted to rent the shop to run it at her place. An old hag and her decrepit husband had been eager to start working there, and they always paid the rent on time.

If Pansy had wanted to keep her life simple, she could have lived with the money that the two men had left her, and with what she got from the rent, without having to work a day in her life. But Pansy was done living modestly. She wanted to buy herself new clothes, designer shoes, and shiny new handbags. She wanted to have a holiday and go to a spa. She wanted to go out and have fun like she had always done when she was younger.

Yes. It was settled. She would work at the apothecary. She would get her old life back. She would have fun. And she would have called Millie. Even though her friend usually got on her nerves every time she opened her mouth, she still was the only girlfriend she had. And after all, Millie knew how to have fun.

***

“Pansy! You look positively adorable like that!”

Pansy involuntarily grimaced at Millie’s shrilly voice as the girl walked into her shop. She cast an apologetic glance at the customer she was serving and lowered her head as she put three phials of Veritaserum in a small bag.

“Here you go, Mrs Atkinson,” she smiled, handing her the bag, “I’m sure your husband won’t have any more secrets for you.”

The woman grabbed the bag and thanked Pansy before turning to eye a beaming Millie warily. She nodded softly to the chubby girl and finally walked out of the shop.

“Millie,” Pansy scolded her friend, “how many times do I have to tell you that you can’t waltz in here whenever you want? I’m working.”

Millie shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes. “You are always working,” she let her know, “ _always_.”

Pansy darkened. “I am not,” she replied curtly, “and shouldn’t you be at work too?”

Millie walked to the counter and leaned her elbows on the wood, rocking back and forth like a child. “I accidentally broke a box with a couple hundred of phials in it,” she replied lightly, “and Madam Primpernelle said I could take the morning off.” She smiled at Pansy. “But you look fantastic with that haircut, Pansy.”

Pansy couldn’t help smiling. She brought a manicured hand to her freshly cut hair and enlaced her fingers in her soft and straight locks. “I’ve had this hairdo for seven years at Hogwarts,” she reminded her friend.

“Yes, but now… you look so much younger,” beamed Millie, stretching a plump hand to stroke her pageboy hair. “Lovely!” She withdrew and brought a hand to her own hair. “Do you think I should cut my hair too?” she asked thoughtfully.

Pansy shook her head. With her round face and beady eyes, she would have looked like a pig with a wig. She didn’t tell her that though. “No, you look good like that,” she reassured instead.

Millie smiled. “We have to celebrate your new haircut, Pansy!” she chirped, her high-pitched tone of voice had the power to give Pansy an instantaneous headache. “We should go to the Leaky Cauldron, tomorrow. It’s free-Butterbeer-if-you-are-a-girl night.”

Pansy shot her a glare. “I knew it was weird that that you came here just to compliment my hair,” she snorted.

Millie laughed shrilly. “Oh, come on,” she quipped, “it’s going to be filled with witches, and where there are girls, I’m sure there’re young, handsome wizards as well…”

Pansy didn’t find that hard to believe. But Millie’s standards were quite low, in fact Pansy believed all her friend needed in a one-night stand was that the other person breathed.

“Come on, Pansy…” pleaded Millie. “I’ve been so lonely ever since Blaise left for India.”

The brunette sighed loudly. Right, Blaise. Millie had been so clingy lately because her friend with benefits had left for a tour of India without so much as a goodbye to her, and she had been devastated. Pansy was sure that her friend’s feelings for the man were not purely friendly, but every time she tried to say that to Blaise, he always brushed her aside.

“When will he be back, by the way?” asked Pansy in the hope of changing the subject.

Millie shrugged her broad shoulders. “I don’t know,” she replied dryly, “I keep writing to him and he never replies.” She cleared her throat and added, “But you have to come tomorrow night.”

Pansy grimaced at her insistence. “I don’t really think it’s a good idea,” she insisted, “first of all, the landlord there hates me, and secondly, I have to work.”

Millie chuckled. “First of all,” she replied imitating Pansy’s voice, “the Leaky Cauldron has just got a new landlady and secondly, you always work.” Her face hardened. “Ever since you inherited this place two years ago, you’ve never closed the shop once. Not even on Christmas day.” Millie smirked. “Weren’t you the one who used to complain when Borgin didn’t let you take any day off work when you started at the shop?”

Pansy darkened. “Christmas day is one of the busiest day of the year,” she let her know coldly, “so many people ask for a digestive potion or a Felix Felicis if they have to spend the day alone.”

“Like you?”

Pansy glared at her. “I’m not alone. I see more people than I would like.”

“You see clients,” Millie pointed out, before waving a hand in front of Pansy to dismiss the argument. “Anyway, the free Butterbeers are from nine p.m. onwards, you don’t have to leave your precious shop earlier to come.”

Pansy bit her bottom lip. She really didn’t want to go out. Especially not to the Leaky Cauldron of all places, where she knew people from her past usually met for a drink. But Millie’s words stung. Despite having promised to treat herself to holidays and shopping sprees and spas, she had done nothing but work in the past two years. As Millie pointed that out to her, she felt as if she was maybe becoming a little too much like her late husband, and cringed at the very thought.

“Come on, Pansy,” Millie urged her. “It’s going to be fun, and we can talk and gossip like we used to do at school.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Right,” she finally conceded, “but I’m staying for an hour tops.”

Millie clapped her hands and beamed. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Brilliant! For once, I don’t have to go out by myself.” She looked at Pansy with a weird light in her eyes. “We might even find a fancy man for your…”

Pansy shook her head, irritated. “No fancy man, please,” she replied curtly, “I’m perfectly fine by myself.”

“Oh, come on, Pansy. It’s been more than two years since your husband died,” she reminded her, “no one can go on that long without sex.”

Pansy wanted to let her know that she could. She wanted to tell her that she was happy falling asleep with a book in her hands, and if one night she felt particularly in the mood, she didn’t mind touching herself. It hurt less than having someone pushing inside of her, and she could come on her own terms. Who to think about as she massaged her clit was the only problem she encountered. She only had sex with three people before, and didn’t want to think about any of them. Borgin made her arousal disappear like clouds on a windy day, and she would rather not think of Lucius. And Draco was out of the question because even though the idea of having him between her legs made her wet, afterwards she was left with a deep sorrow and a pain that knifed through her heart. And she didn’t even particularly care to confess that she had imagined Ronald Weasley once. She remembered his soft tone of voice and his strong arms as he grabbed her at the trial, and to her astonishment she had once thought about him as she came. The very thought of even seeing him for real – let alone touch him – made her sick, but in her head she could made him do whatever she wanted. She had also thought about Nott and Flint and Blaise, but still she didn’t want to tell Millie that either.

Luckily she didn’t have to say anything at all, because at that moment the door opened and a young-looking wizard came in and enquired for a love potion.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then, Pansy,” chirped Millie, withdrawing from the counter to let the wizard approach it. “Be punctual.”

Pansy waved a hand impatiently at her before returning her attention to the young man. “A love potion, Sir?” she asked gently. “You came to the right place, we have the biggest selection of love potions in London.” She offered her client a knowing smile before adding, “Legal and illegal.” 

***

Pansy regretted her decision to go to the Leaky Cauldron with Millie the moment she stepped into the busy inn. First of all, Millie had withheld information from her when she told her that the Leaky Cauldron had a new landlady. In fact, the place was now propriety of Hannah and Neville Longbottom. Not that it made a difference, really, but that meant two more people from her past that would certainly be there. It was irritating, because now that the business was going well and she wouldn’t feel embarrassed anymore in case someone asked her about her job, she knew that nobody gave a damn about her work. All people were interested in was Borgin and what had happened that night. Over and over again. And Pansy tried to sound as sweet as possible as she told them to go fuck themselves.

As she followed Millie to a small, round table in a booth and sat in the most sheltered corner of the bench, she caught a glimpse of many faces that she recognised. There was that coquette, Lavender Brown, chatting animatedly with the landlady. And sitting at a table near the window there was… was that Lisa Turnip? With a belly the size of a balloon.  _Wise, Turnip,_ thought Pansy bitterly,  _drink alcohol to your child’s health._ Adrian Pucey looked already drunk as he pulled at Justin Finch-Fletchley’s robe. Pansy sighed and tried to look smaller than usual, the only perk at being there with Millie was that the other girl could shelter her from unwanted stares quite easily.

“Two Butterbeers,” ordered Millie with a high-pitched tone that made more than one face turn towards them. “Mine with extra foam.”

The landlady looked at her warily as she excused herself with Brown and started to fill in two capacious jugs with Butterbeer.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Pansy,” started Millie without even looking at her. “Aren’t you glad you’re here?” She began to fumble with the belt of her trench coat and finally made it slide down her shoulders. Pansy was glad that her friend was wearing a bright pink and yellow, thigh-length dress. She would attract all the attention on herself and let Pansy and her more virtuous knee-length, green dress go unnoticed.

Longbottom put the jugs on the table and gave Millie a fake smile, but when her eyes flickered on Pansy somehow her smile became more genuine. “Enjoy,” she said, before walking away.

Pansy grabbed her jug and brought it to her mouth to take a big gulp of the amber, warm liquid. It was refreshing, and the tipsiness that would engulf her later would help her get through that evening. As she looked at the faces around her and thought just how much she didn’t want to talk to any of them, she understood what kind of a hermit she had become.

“Okay,” Millie snapped her out of her thoughts, “you have to understand how happy I am that you are here.” She smiled and downed half of the jug. Then she lowered her voice. “Can you see Turnip sitting at the table near the window? Don’t let her see you watching her.”

Pansy sighed. “Yeah, no, I’ve already seen her,” she reassured her, “she looks quite pregnant.”

Millie nodded. “She is, and there’s a rumour that says that the father is Flint.”

Pansy furrowed her brow. “Flint? Marcus Flint?”

“Yes,” continued Millie, engrossed, “but she divorced from Finnigan only six months ago, so nobody really knows.”

“She was married to Finnigan? That Irish Gryffindor in our year at Hogwarts?”

Millie nodded again, raising her eyebrows a little. “Yes, Pansy,” she replied slowly, as if she was talking to a child. “My! Aren’t you a little behind with the news? Apparently, he was seeing Chang behind her back.” She grinned mischievously. “And here’s the thing, she was doing exactly the same.”

“With Flint?” asked Pansy, and suddenly was hit by the realisation that she really didn’t care.

Millie shook her head. “With Chang,” she told her with a big grin on her round face. “That Chinese tart likes a bit of variety, apparently, but now that they divorced she left both of them.”

Pansy was unsure what to reply. She really didn’t care about those people’s personal lives, she really did want to go home and read a book or brew more potions for the next day, and she really did want Millie to stop talking. Her voice was giving her a headache, and a powerful one. She really couldn’t have told her those things though, so she just nodded and brought the jug to her mouth to take another gulp of Butterbeer and hope that the liquid would make the whole night more endurable.

“And did you know that Finch-Fletchley and Pucey are an item now?” continued Millie as she gestured for another two Butterbeers to the landlady.

Pansy’s eyes travelled back to the two men, who were now discussing rather violently, and cocked an eyebrow. “They don’t look like an item to me,” she let her know.

“Oh, they must have had a quarrel, Pucey thinks that Finch-Fletchley is too possessive, that’s what I heard…”

Pansy sighed and looked gratefully as the second Butterbeer was pushed towards her. “How terribly interesting,” she muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She opened her mouth to try to change the subject, but couldn’t find anything to say.

“Bloody hell! If that’s not my favourite girl!”

Millie let out a screech that made half of the customers stop their chatting to turn and look at her as she jumped on her feet and threw herself at the tall, dark man who was hovering above them.

“Blaise!” she beamed. “You’re back!” She squeezed him until he had to take a sharp breath.

He brought his hands to the girl’s shoulders and pushed her back, gently but firmly. “Yes, yes,” he growled, “but I wasn’t talking to you, Bulstrode.”

Pansy looked up at him and he smiled to her. She smirked in return, tapping her fingers nervously on the jug. “Blaise,” she acknowledged him with a nod. “How was India?”

“Oh,” interjected Millie, disappointed, “but I’m your second favourite girl, right?”

Blaise looked at her thoughtfully. “Yes,” he replied, “if there were only two girls left in the world, you would definitely be number two.”

She grinned to him and sat back down next to Pansy, oblivious to his insult.

“And India was bloody humid and smelly,” he told Pansy, “I just couldn’t take it anymore.” He turned to order a Butterbeer, then stopped and ordered another two for the girls. “They are on me, ladies,” he told them with a grin.

“They’re free for us, Blaise,” Pansy reminded him.

Blaise smirked and grabbed a chair from a nearby table. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, sitting down across from them, “what is our dear Parkinson doing out of her flat?” He bit his bottom lip and looked at Pansy almost apologetically. “I mean Borg—Pansy…”

Pansy shrugged her shoulders. “Parkinson is okay, Blaise,” she let him know, “I changed my name.” She sipped some Butterbeer and eyed warily the third jug that was brought to the table.

Blaise cocked his head as he drank half of his Butterbeer in one go. “And what are you doing here? I thought you never left Knockturn Alley.”

Pansy glared at him. “Millie invited me,” she replied curtly. “She’s looking for someone to screw tonight.”

“Oh, I might have just found that someone,” the plump witch beamed, looking at Blaise with twinkly eyes.

Blaise laughed in disdain. “I hardly think so, Bulstrode,” he replied coldly, “not tonight.” He looked at Pansy and wetted his lips, flashing her a smirk.

Pansy’s eyebrows raised in surprise. What was he doing? She didn’t know, he just looked at her with hunger in his eyes, as if she were a box of chocolates. It wasn’t the first time he looked at her like that, sometimes he had even insinuated that he would have liked to… Pansy swallowed, all those times he had acted like that because he was sure that he couldn’t have had her, and now it was surely to make Millie either jealous or mad. At least, she was confident that was why he was looking at her like that.

“Oh, come on, Blaise,” pleaded Millie, “I haven’t seen you in more than a year…”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Look,” he muttered, finally looking at Millie, “I didn’t want to tell you because he made me promise, but…” He turned to look at the room filled with people and when his eyes gazed upon Millie one more time, he lowered his voice, “but Goyle was looking for you.” He smiled seductively. “He said he couldn’t help noticing you in that dress. He said you look particularly…  _flashy_.”

Millie’s eyes filled with excitement and Pansy groaned at her. “Really?” she whispered. “Where is he?”

Blaise shrugged his shoulders. “No idea,” he replied, “go look for him.” He nodded towards the crowd and she stood up hurriedly.

She didn’t even look at Pansy as she walked through the swarm of people and frantically started looking for Goyle. Pansy’s annoyance at having been discarded like an old rug was short-lived, for she was suddenly grateful that she wouldn’t have to hear Millie’s voice for a while. She finished her second Butterbeer before attacking her third one.

“She’s so clingy, sometimes,” complained Blaise. He turned to order another Butterbeer, and without a word stood from the chair and came to sit next to Pansy.

“Sometimes?” replied Pansy disdainfully.

Blaise laughed. “More like all the time,” he agreed. “I came back last month, but didn’t tell her.” He smirked. “If I hadn’t seen you sitting here, I would have Disapparated the moment I spotted that ugly face of hers.” He thanked the landlady for the second drink and half-turned to have a better look at Pansy. “It’s nice to see you here,” he whispered throatily.

Pansy stared at her Butterbeer. “Yeah,” she replied, “I’m not staying long. I have to work tomorrow.”

Blaise chuckled. “Merlin, you should take a holiday, Parkinson. You work too much.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. The last thing she wanted was another person to tell her what to do and what not to do. “I work the right amount of time,” she replied coldly, glaring at him, “and how would you even know? You haven’t been here in more than a year.”

“Millicent,” he explained, nodding towards the crowd, “she wrote to me almost every day when I was in India.”

Pansy sighed, nor exactly her idea of privacy. “I thought you didn’t read her letters,” she quipped.

“Oh, I read them all, I just never replied,” he smirked.

Pansy nodded in understanding, sipping her third Butterbeer. She suspected that the Longbottoms had lowered the alcohol percentage in the drink, because she still couldn’t feel anything. Stupid Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs…

“Listen,” murmured Blaise, suddenly serious, “I… I never got to tell you how sorry I was for… you know, for what happened with Borgin…” He looked at Pansy, and she was truly discomforted by the sorrow in his eyes.

“Don’t,” she snapped, looking away. “I don’t need your pity.”

She didn’t see him as he turned, nodded and gulped down the second Butterbeer and ordered another one. “Actually,” he added as Longbottom put the jug in front of him, “can I also have a bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses, please?”

The young lady nodded softly. “Would you like something else?” she asked to Pansy.

“Oh, she’s sharing the bottle with me,” answered Blaise at her place.

“I hardly think so,” she replied coldly, as the landlady walked away, “it’s late already, and I open the shop at seven in the morning usually.”

Blaise shook his head and slid a hand on her waist, pulling her towards him. “I’m not letting you go until you have fun,” he whispered in her ear, “so no Apparating out of here for you.”

She turned and gave him a tight lipped smiled. “See, I’m having fun,” she told him, “you can let me go.”

“You’re funny,” he deadpanned in a way that reminded her terribly of Draco.

She shook her head slightly to send that thought away. “So what were you doing in India?” she asked. “Finding yourself?”

Blaise shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t leaning against her back. “At first, yes, then I found quite a profitable flying carpet business and decided that I didn’t actually need to find myself anymore,” he explained, “I’ve just sold a couple of carpets to that old couple that is running Borgin and Burkes now.”

“It’s still mine, you know,” Pansy felt the urge to tell him. “The shop, I mean. They are just renting.”

Blaise grinned. “I’m impressed,” he whispered, “little Parkinson owns two shops and two flats. She’s all grown up.” He moved closer to her, until his Butterbeer scented breath was tickling her face. “And still, she looks like a teenager with this hair.” He came closer to her until she could feel his lips planting a soft kiss on her neck. “You smell so good,” he murmured, and again Pansy stiffened at the thought that Draco used to say that to her before sex.

“It’s a perfume I’ve perfected myself,” she let him know in her most business-like voice, “you can buy it at the apothecary if you like it.”

He chuckled and withdrew from her as the bottle of Firewhiskey arrived. He nodded to the woman and pushed a glass in front of Pansy. “This one is really on me,” he let her know, filling it.

Pansy looked at it warily. “I really shouldn’t,” she retorted, “I have to work tomorrow.”

“It’s your shop,” he reminded her, “open a little bit later.”

She shook her head firmly. “I hardly think so,” she replied coldly, but nonetheless she grabbed the glass in her hand.

“You really need a holiday,” he insisted, downing his glass of Firewhiskey.

She drank about half her glass, feeling the liquid burning down her throat as she did. “I’m planning a trip to Italy,” she let him know lightly. She had always wanted to go there and visit Milan, Rome, and Venice, and buy designer clothes and shoes and eat gelato and walk in the most glamorous places, but truth was, she hadn’t even started thinking about when and where to go yet.

He filled his glass again. “Awesome,” he grinned, “I’ll come with.”

Pansy finished her glass and tried to move it away from Blaise as he poured her some more alcohol. “I don’t think so,” she told him firmly, “I want to go alone.”

He drank his second glass as if it was water. “Merlin, Parkinson,” he grunted, “you live alone, you work alone, you spend all your time alone, you want to go on holiday alone – are you some kind of a recluse?”

Pansy pushed her glass away on the table. “Even if I was, I don’t think that would be any of your business,” she retorted, and was a bit scared to find her words a bit slurred. The alcohol was kicking in, and it would make the return home all the more difficult; especially in Knockturn Alley where, even though she was now well known and respected, people might still try to follow her home and steal the money that they thought she was now piling with the two shops she owned.

“It might be,” he whispered, looking at her with his big, dark eyes. Pansy had never noticed how big they were. He smiled and brought a hand to her thigh, squeezing it gently right above her knee.

She pushed him away with her hand. “Blaise,” she warned, trying to sound as sober as possible, “I don’t think that’s what you want.” She tried to slip away from him, but found his hand back on her hipbone. “Not now that I am…  _available_.”

Blaise looked at her quizzically. “Beg your pardon?”

She nodded and felt her head slightly lighter than before. “Come on,” she slurred annoyed at his surprised tone, “you’ve been all flirty with me in the past because you knew I was married or…” She wanted to say that she was seeing Draco, but she couldn’t bear herself to even say his name. She shook her head. “But now that I’m not, you can’t possibly be interested… what with all your aversion to having a stable relationship and—”

“Are you trying to tell me that you want a stable relationship?” he asked seriously.

She shook her head furiously, snorting. “That is the farthest thing from my mind,” she replied disdainfully.

He grinned and grabbed her chin gently, making her turn her face towards him. He lowered his head and before she could understand what was happening, he kissed her softly on her lips. “Then I think we will be alright,” he whispered gently, his breath washing over her face.

He kept her head in place as he came in for another kiss. She felt herself tensing up as he pressed his body against hers. His big, warm hand on her hip spread its fingers and pushed her towards him. She let him slide his other arm on her stomach to reach the other hand and pull at her until her knees were touching his. He licked her bottom lip, silently asking permission for entrance. Pansy swallowed a little before deciding that it would be alright. It was just a kiss after all, and this was Blaise, and they were drunk. They would laugh at it the next day.

She parted her lips and let him slide his tongue inside her mouth. He was explorative and passionate, as if he were trying to taste every inch of her. She laughed in her head at the thought, for she had to taste of Firewhiskey just like him. She was unsure what to do with her hands. It had been so long since she had snogged anybody at all, she was a bit lost and the alcohol didn’t help. She decided that the neck was a good enough place and brought her hands to cup the sides of his neck. She kissed him with as much passion as he was kissing her then, almost urging him to get deeper into her mouth. It was only when he bit her bottom lip that she seemed to wake up from the trance where he had made her fall.

She withdrew almost brusquely and looked around herself with wide eyes filled with apprehension.  

“What?” asked Blaise, lowering his head to nuzzle at her neck.

“I don’t want Millie to see us,” she replied, her voice slightly high-pitched.

He smiled against her sensitive skin and she shivered. “That can be arranged.”

***

Blaise pushed Pansy against the wall of the room.

She had to admit that he hadn’t been quite as subtle as she had hoped. He had grabbed her wrist and dragged her to the counter of the Leaky Cauldron, her legs vaguely unstable as she trailed behind him. He had paid for the drinks and asked for a room for the night, whatever room they had available, as long as it had a comfortable bed. He had winked at Hannah Longbottom and pulled Pansy to him for another short session of snogging right in front of everybody. He had then proceeded to retrieve the key from the woman’s hand and held onto her almost more tightly than before as they looked for their room on the first floor.

And now, Pansy almost couldn’t believe it, she was letting him push her against the wall, her dress slightly inched on her thighs as he grabbed her buttocks and kissed her raw. She could feel his fleshy lips against her own and his teeth scraping gently at her bottom lip as he panted hard against her. She slid her own tongue in his mouth and he sucked on it with wanton need, until Pansy let out a moan of pleasure.

He withdrew and looked at her with lust-filled eyes, he flashed her a smirk and lowered his head on her jaw. He proceeded to kiss it from her ear to her chin and down, following a vein to her collarbone. He grabbed her bottom more firmly, making her inching up the wall and giving him better access to the places where he wanted to lick and kiss her, until her skin became red and slick with his saliva.

She grabbed his head to push him against herself and he tried to move the dress aside to expose her breasts, but it was too tight on her chest and she just had to stifle a laugh at his vain efforts.

He growled in impatience and withdrew to pull her to the middle of the room. He grabbed the hem of the dress and told her to rise her hands as he made it slide up over her body. He discarded it on the floor and looked at her petite figure standing there in her underwear.

She could see his throat as he swallowed hard. She smiled seductively at him and sat on the bed to take off her boots. When she was done she crawled on the mattress and knelt in the middle, legs slightly spread.

He still had his eyes fixed on her.

“What?” she asked after a good couple of minutes where he hadn’t moved.

He took a deep breath. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured softly.

Pansy rolled her eyes at his confession. “You already have me half-naked on a bed, Blaise,” she responded with contempt, “I’d say you will get lucky even if you don’t say those things.”

Blaise looked at her seriously. “You think I’m saying it because I’m about to get laid?” he asked, his voice deep. He shook his head. “You don’t know me at all.”

Pansy had to bite her bottom lip not to let her frustration unwind. Of course she didn’t know him, they had met only a few times ever since they finished school, and what was with all the mushy feelings and soft words? She was there because she was tipsy, and after all, she hadn’t had a man in two years and maybe Millie was right, nobody could go that long without sex.

“Are you going to fuck me or not?” she finally asked him, nervousness in her voice.

He didn’t move. “You really reckon that I don’t find you beautiful?” he asked her. “Blimey, Parkinson, I’ve wanted you ever since we were at Hogwarts.”

Pansy furrowed her brow in hesitation. That was not what she had expected. He had said that he didn’t want a stable relationship, which to Pansy only meant a no-string-attached one-night-stand. And now he was telling her all this rubbish about wanting her ever since they were in school. She should have known that that was not a good idea. “What’s wrong with you? Merlin, Blaise I—”

“Yes,” he continued forcefully, cutting her off, “I mean Daphne was hot and Tracey was easy, but you…” His eyes made her feel uncomfortable as he stared at her. “You seemed to walk ten inches from the ground and didn’t look at anybody at all, and Malfoy had made it clear that you were his and—”

“Can you not say  _his_  name?” she blurted out bitterly.

Blaise looked at her a bit taken aback. So, he didn’t know anything. It meant that Draco hadn’t spoken a word about them with him. “What happened?” he asked softly.

Pansy’s eyes widened in shock. Did he really want to talk and not get anything done with her? And why of all things did he want to talk about her relationship with Draco? “That is none of your business,” she hissed, getting up from the bed and walking to retrieve her dress from the floor. She shot him a glare. “I really thought you wanted to fuck me, but apparently you need a nice girl chat instead.”

She rolled her dress to better put it on, but Blaise grabbed her arm and pulled her to him again. “I do,” he growled, “damn! I’ve wanted to for years.” He looked into her eyes. “I just want you to know that you are not just another meaningless fuck.”

Pansy looked away. “Too bad,” she murmured, “that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

He cupped her cheeks and made her look up at him. He looked back at her with such pity that she just wanted to wiggle out of his hands and Apparate home. It didn’t matter the amount of alcohol in her body, it didn’t matter if she splinched herself. It would have been better than staring into his eyes.

“You’re so damaged,” he murmured before capturing her lips into another kiss.

She tried to resist him, but her brain and her body seemed to work in disharmony as she started to kiss him back. The dress fell on the floor once again as he circled her hips with an arm and raised her from the floor. Her tiny legs wrapped around his waist. He walked to the bed and pushed her down into the mattress. She brought a finger in her mouth and started to slowly suck on it as he quickly unbuttoned his robe and then his shirt and finally his trousers and discarded them all on her dress.

He swallowed loudly, as if he had no problem in showing her that he was slightly nervous. Pansy didn’t know why he would have been, though, since she was sure he had had more women than he could count. He looked like a boy at his first encounter with a naked woman. That feeling dissipated quickly, though, when he walked towards her and joined her on the bed.

He knelt between her legs and quickly pushed down her bra, letting her breasts pop out. He didn’t waste time. He lowered his mouth to her right breast to suck in earnest on her nipple. She could feel his expert teeth grazing at her flesh gently and his tongue licking its way around her areola. Her breath was starting to quicken as his other hand squeezed her left breast. She could feel them harden, and when he bit one a little more forcefully she let out a soft moan, and he chuckled around her flesh.

He withdrew slightly to bring his attention to the other nipple, and she brought  a hand to his head to push him against her flesh. His hair was too short for her to slide her fingers through it, but still she enjoyed its softness under her fingertips. He licked her until she was panting and her other hand was fisting the sheets. Then he retreated a little, looking down at her with lust-filled eyes. He looked so serious that for a moment, Pansy was afraid that he would have come up with more lovey-dovey stuff to tell her. So she broke the eye-contact to raise her torso and stretch a hand towards his member.

She grabbed it in her hand and could feel that it was already half erect. She started to stroke it through the fabric of his underwear and as she did, he let out a groan of appreciation. She swung her legs and knelt in front of him. Hooking her fingers in the elastic band, she brought down his underwear until his erection sprung free. She closed her tiny hands around it and started to go up and down with firmer and faster movements every time. She brought one of her hands to cup his balls and massage them, and raised her eyes to see Blaise’s blissful face. He had his eyes closed, lips parted, and was panting softly.

She stopped for a moment and shifted on the bed to bring her mouth to his erection. She grabbed the base of his member and lowered her head until she almost touched its bulbous head with her lips.

Blaise seized her shoulders and made her straighten up. He looked at her with eyes clouded with desire. “Don’t,” he spoke softly, “I want to last.”

Pansy licked her lips as she nodded in understanding. He lowered his head to kiss her again, and she brought her hands back to his erection to resume her touching. He let go of her mouth and hid his head in the curve of her neck, biting and sucking hard, until Pansy was sucking in her breath.

He pushed away her hands from him then, and pushed her gently towards the mattress until she was lying on her back. He wasted no time as he pushed her legs up and drew her knickers down her legs and off her feet, then threw them on the floor. He pushed down his own underwear and kissed Pansy one more time, his tongue trying to taste her mouth again. She did the same and noticed how fainter than before the taste of Firewhiskey was on his breath.

He placed his hands on her ribs and Pansy felt his fingers exploring the dragon-shaped scar under her left breast. She shifted uncomfortably, but he didn’t seem to understand for his digits kept tracing the intricate design. He started to trail kisses down her jaw, then her neck, her collarbone and her cleavage. He stopped to kiss each nipple once, before following the subtle line of down on her stomach. He licked her navel in earnest, his hands keeping her hips in place as he pushed his tongue into it.

She sighed at the wonderful feeling, and once again her hand went to his head to urge him to continue. And he did continue, he continued south, kissing his way until his head was resting between her legs. He spread her thighs with his big hands and inhaled her scent as if she were a delicious dish. Pansy raised her head a little to look at him as he finally descended on her clit and took it in his mouth. She inhaled sharply as he massaged it with his lips and sucked gently on it.

She involuntarily pulled her legs higher to give him better access and he licked his way into her folds. She was already wet and his tongue darted inside of her with ease. She could feel him licking her as his nose bumped softly on her clit. She brought a hand to her mouth to suck on her finger, while the other clawed at Blaise’s shoulder, trying uselessly to get him deeper into her. She let out a moan as he returned his mouth to her clit and she could feel him smile against her centre.

She didn’t care about lasting, and apparently he didn’t care either, because he licked one of his fingers and brought it to Pansy’s folds. He entered her slowly and stopped when she cried louder. He started to push in and out of her with ardour, until she was bucking against him.

Pansy felt the familiar electricity building up in her bundle of nerves. So similar to what she experienced when she touched herself, and at the same time so much better. She felt her orgasm hit her hard and fast and soon she was moaning out loud and her muscles were quivering and jolting at the sensations.

Blaise withdrew slightly, he leaned his head against her inner thigh and tentatively licked her a couple more times, before just observing her folds glisten and muscles contracting. When she came down from the wave of her orgasm, he slowly pushed himself up her body, until he was lying on top of her and kissing her once again. She could taste herself on his tongue, the musky scent of her arousal mixed with the alcohol.

He lifted his head a little and broke the kiss, staring right into her eyes as he lined his erection with her wet folds. He pushed her legs up as far as they could go, and Pansy looked at him a bit dazed as she realised that he seemed to want to take her in that position.

He pushed against her slowly, painfully slow and even though she was incredibly wet, it still hurt her. She hadn’t had anything in her except for her fingers for a long time, and she was sure it was going to hurt like hell.

He was gentle, though, and she was grateful. She closed her eyes when the head of his member was inside and he kept pushing into her. She brought her arms to his back, trying to grab onto his muscles as his erection invaded her. She let out a whimper when he was almost completely sheltered inside of her.

He stopped moving. “Are you alright?” he whispered in her ear.

She sucked in her breath before whispering back her assent. He kissed her cheek and started to move out a little, and before pulling out completely, he pushed back in.

She scrunched her eyes up and held onto him more forcefully as he pushed into her. She waited for him to comment on her tightness, and in fact he groaned those words that had always graced Draco’s lips when he entered her. He made his arms slide under her armpits and grabbed her shoulders, increasing his speed.

When the pain of the penetration subdued and she started to feel only pleasure, Pansy started to think in horror that he was thrusting into her in the very same position that Borgin had always used when he tried to impregnate her. She had to shake her head to send that thought away. She had to focus on Blaise…

He started to push a little bit faster and a little bit deeper into her, until she could feel his balls slapping against her buttocks.

“So… good…” he groaned in her ear.

Pansy smiled at the comment. Not that she was doing anything really, she was just letting him take her as he pleased. And it was good, even though Blaise didn’t know where she liked to be touched or which position she preferred, he was gentle and dedicated.

_Yes, you are so good, Pansy…_

Pansy’s eyes shot open as she recognised Draco’s voice in her head. Her breath hitched and she gasped as she found herself staring at Draco’s face above Blaise’s shoulder. He looked at her with sad, grey eyes for the briefest of moments before disappearing like a ghost in front of her.

She shook her head softly and hugged Blaise more strongly. She turned to look at the face of the man she was making love to and was petrified to see Borgin’s sneer looking down at her.  _You’ll have my child, girl,_  he hissed to her.

Pansy’s eyes widened as she let go of the man. She shook her head again, her breath irregular with fear and shock, her lips parted. In his turn, Blaise let go of her shoulders and pushed his hands on the mattress on either side of her.

She placed her hands on his chest and pushed hard at him. “No,” she cried. “No! Stop!”

Blaise didn’t seem to hear her though, because he continued to thrust into her as if his life depended on it.

She raised her head, until she was leaning her forehead against his shoulder and pushed even more forcefully against him, her hands curled into fists, but he didn’t even feel her.

Then, suddenly, one of his warm hands was placed on her forehead and she was pushed gently down until the back of her head leaned against the pillow.

He brought his mouth next to her ear and panted, “What’s wrong?”

She could feel his chest expanding with quick, ragged breaths against her breasts. Her arms trapped between them. She glanced down at the curve of his neck and saw the dark skin that let her know that this was Blaise. He had stopped, his erection still buried into her, but he wasn’t moving anymore. He was waiting for her to calm down and tell him what had happened. But how could she? Telling him that ghosts from her past had just visited her as they were having sex? She couldn’t say that. He would have thought her crazy, or worse, he would have pitied her even more.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice hoarse with lust.

Pansy wiggled her hands free from his body and hugged his broad shoulders. He hugged her back until his body almost enveloped hers. “No,” she managed to breath out, “just… don’t come in me.”

He nuzzled at her earlobe. “I won’t,” he whispered before starting to pull out and push back in again. This time he was quick at picking up the same pace as before, and his thrusts became deeper and more forceful every time.

She held onto him, her eyes wide as she expected to see more unwanted faces around her. Then Blaise’s shoves became erratic and his grunts louder. Finally, he freed himself from Pansy’s arms and sat back, sliding out of her with a subtle pop. He grabbed his erection and rested it on her quivering belly. He pumped it a couple of times with his own hand before spurting his seed on Pansy’s lower abdomen and crying out her name.

He came for what seemed ages to Pansy and when he was done he smeared his semen on her belly and stared mesmerised at it. His breath slowed down and Pansy’s too. Finally, he collapsed on the bed next to her and turned on his side. Grabbing Pansy’s waist, he made her roll onto her side as well and pulled her back against his chest, spooning her.

She was still shaking, and she was glad that he would believe that it was from the sex and not from shock. She let one of his big arms circle her stomach and his head leaned against hers. Her buttocks rested on his lower abdomen and she could feel his spent member against the back of her thigh.

“What happened?” he asked her gently.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she breathed out, “I just forgot that I’m not on a potion.” And it was true, and would she have remembered if her twisted mind hadn’t shown her two glimpses of her past? She shivered at the very thought.

“Good thing you remembered,” he murmured against the shell of her ear.

She swallowed. “Yes,” she murmured back, “you can come in me when I’m on the potion.”

She felt him stiffen against her, his arm becoming iron on her ribcage. He came even closer to her, until his lips were brushing against her cheek. “You want to do this again?” he asked softly.

Pansy stiffened too, her legs shifting uncomfortably on the bed. She bit her bottom lip as she stared in front of her. She could feel his warm breath against her skin and his proximity was making her dizzier by the minute. Or maybe it wasn’t his proximity, it was the alcohol and the sex. She tried to wiggle free from him and when he tightened his grip around her stomach, she understood that he was much stronger than Draco.

“I need to clean myself,” she let him know, again trying to get free to reach her wand.

He pulled her towards him again, his other arm sliding under her body to hug her completely and dig almost painfully in her side. “Stay like this,” he murmured, “I like it.”

She didn’t. She didn’t like the fact that he wanted her to stay covered in his seed. She didn’t like the fact that he liked it. Somehow, it felt as if he was claiming her as his with that, and she didn’t like it. She was hers and only hers.

“So,” he breathed, “you want to do this again?” She could feel the smirk in his voice as he added, “Maybe tonight?”

“I hardly think so,” she replied in her haughtiest voice, “I have to go, now. I have to work tomorrow.” Still he didn’t release her and she sighed in annoyance. “Blaise…”

“I want to do it again,” he hurried to say, biting playfully at her jaw, “and again and again and again and again…” He punctuated every ‘again’ with a kiss or a bite until her jaw was slick with his saliva.

“I have to go,” she repeated, tapping her fingers on his arms.

“Answer me first,” he whispered firmly.

Pansy turned her head towards him and he captured her lips in a bruising kiss. It was only when she tried to push him off with a hand on his upper arm that he understood that she wanted to talk. “Let me go,” she replied softly, “and I’ll answer you.”

He tightened his arms until she could feel her bones creak softly. “As if you’re not going to Disapparate the moment I let you go,” he grunted gruffly.

“I swear I won’t,” she sighed. “Just let me go, though.”

He finally released her and she slid on the bed until she was sitting with her feet on the floor, giving him her back. She looked for her wand and found it near her boots. The first thing she did was to clean herself of their fluids.

“ _Accio dress_.”

She turned to look at Blaise as her dress flew in his hand and he brought it to his nose to inhale her scent. He closed his eyes and a smile appeared on his lips as if he liked her smell. Then he looked at her and smirked. “A little insurance,” he told her, wearing her dress around his shoulders as if it was a scarf, “you aren’t going to Disapparate out of here in your underwear, I suppose.”

Pansy rolled her eyes and started to look for her knickers and bra. It didn’t take her long and soon she was slipping her feet into the boots.

“So?” he asked. “Do you want to do this again?”

Pansy looked at him with annoyance. He was like a dog with a bone.

Did she want to? The sex had been okay, Blaise might have been good, but she couldn’t have known until her ex-lovers left her alone. Still, it had been better than all the other times she had brought herself off. “If we are going to do this again,” she informed him, raising her chin, “there are going to be rules.”

Blaise smirked, brought his arms behind his head and looked at her with interest. “I’m listening,” he told her with amusement in his voice.

She cleared her throat, she didn’t even know what rules she wanted to enforce. She would have to make them up as she spoke. “No talking,” she stated firmly, “and no asking about my past.”

He pouted. “I like to talk.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Well, you can talk,” she corrected herself, “just not tell me things like… like the ones you told me earlier…”

He smirked. “What? That I’ve wanted you ever since Hogwarts?”

“Exactly,” she hissed. “Things like that are off limits.”

It was his time to roll his eyes. “Go on,” he sighed.

She bit her bottom lip. “No touching of my scar,” she continued icily, “don’t even look at it, don’t ask me about it or think about it.”

This time Blaise’s expression became serious as he nodded his understanding. She was glad he understood that she wasn’t joking.

“And lastly,” she added, her voice throaty, “no falling in love.”

His expression was undecipherable as he looked at her. He didn’t seem happy, he looked almost annoyed, almost disappointed.  _Almost_.

She felt the urge to continue. “No strings attached,” she clarified, “this is just a stress relieving arrangement. You are free to date whoever you want.”

He wetted his lips as he looked at her seriously. “Is that all?” he finally asked her.

She couldn’t think of anything else. “Yes,” she replied, “for now.”

He nodded. “When can I see you again?”

She pointed her wand towards him and Summoned the dress back into her hand. “When I feel like it,” she replied with a smirk of her own. She let the dress slip back on her body and smoothed it with her hands. Then she retrieved her coat from a chair and wore it.

“Can I have a kiss before you go?” he asked her from the bed.

Pansy eyed him warily, before letting her lips curving into a smirk. She brought her hand to her mouth and blew him a kiss before Disapparating.

***

Pansy wrinkled her nose at the foul smell that rose from her cauldron. It was clear that Goosegrass and Angel’s Trumpet didn’t mix well at all. She grabbed her notebook and made a note about it, before turning to Vanish the half-brewed potion. She sighed as she looked at two-hours-of-work disappear.

It had all started a few days before, while trying to reach a pile of empty phials on a very high shelf, she knocked a box off and miraculously found a stash of notebooks that had clearly belonged to Mr Burke. Some of them were still brand new, but some were all covered in potion instructions and small drawings of ingredients and effects those potions had on people.

Some potions Pansy had never heard of, some of them she had but she remembered a different preparation. She had spent hours staring at those pages filled in a tidy and minuscule writing, until she came to the conclusion that the man had invented most of them and perfected some others. He was a genius, and an unappreciated genius at that matter. Pansy was delighted to see that the last potion had been left unfinished, because all she needed at that time was a good challenge to keep her busy. He was working on a venom that didn’t leave any trace in the body and that didn’t let the victim suffer, unlike most venoms, but killed quickly and without so much as a spasm. Apparently, it had been the cauldron that Pansy herself had sold him years before to make him want to perfect such a poison. He wrote that himself.

She decided then and there that she would finish his job and – why not? – maybe continued it with other potions. After all, she was good at what she did. The shop was going well, and not a single person had complained about either the ingredients she sold nor the potions she brewed.

But a week into finding the perfect venom, and she was already starting to get annoyed with the results she got. She wasn’t achieving anything and all she did was consume stash after stash of ingredients.

She closed the notebook and slammed it on the table before she heard the front door of the shop open and some heavy steps walk in. She glared at the now empty cauldron before going to the front.

“Good afternoon,” she greeted an old woman with a head covered in fair hair. “How can I help you?”

The woman smiled toothlessly and asked for some Asphodel and Baneberries. Then she remembered that she needed some Belladonna and Pansy had to go to the back to collect some that had arrived that morning from Italy.

“Is this Goosegrass that I smell, dear?” asked the woman.

Pansy nodded.  _That and the smell of my failure._ “Apparently it doesn’t mix well with Angel’s Trumpet.”

The woman shook her head vigorously, her hair falling in front of her eyes. “Oh no,” she chirped cheerfully, “do you want to know a secret, dear? Never mix anything lethal with Goosegrass, it sends out a foul smell and makes the potion useless.”

Pansy offered the woman a small smile. “Thank you,” she replied, mentally taking note to write it down later.

“You want to use Knotgrass,” the woman continued. “How much for the ingredients?”

Pansy smiled. “The Asphodel and the Baneberries make two Galleons, the Belladonna is on the house,” she replied gently.

The woman beamed and took her ingredients, thanking Pansy for her good heart.

Pansy looked at her as she left the shop. Her good heart? How could she have a good heart when she was trying to perfect a venom? She chuckled silently at herself.

***

“I have a present for you,” grinned Blaise, stepping out of her fireplace with a box in his hands.

Pansy looked up from her book to stare at him. She hadn’t invited him over, and he hadn’t asked her to meet him like they usually did, he had just stepped out of her hearth as if that was the most normal thing in the world. The man was looking at her with a smile upon his face, his eyes shining in anticipation to see her unwrapping the present.

“Why do you have a present for me?” asked Pansy warily, eyes going to the box in his hands.

“Can’t I give you a present if I want to?” he asked back, walking over to the couch and sitting down next to her.

Pansy closed her book and turned to look at him. “No,” she replied flatly, “it’s rule number 24, no presents.”

He chuckled. “I told you I don’t count any of the rules that you added after that night,” he reminded her, handing her the box. “Come on, open it.”

Pansy looked down at the box in her hands. It was the right size for a shoebox, maybe he got her shoes. Maybe from Italy or Paris, where they had the ones she liked so much. The box was covered in silvery paper and a big, green bow was tied on the top. She tried to think hard at what day it was. It was not her birthday, and she was sure that Blaise didn’t know when that was anyway. It wasn’t her name day nor Christmas or any other holiday. It was just another day.

“I seriously think you need to open it,” urged Blaise, grabbing her hands and putting them on the bow. “Quickly too.”

Pansy looked at him with a puzzled expression, but did as she was told. She untied the bow and discarded it on the floor. When she raised the top she stared at the content with her mouth wide open for a good few seconds.

Blaise chuckled at her reaction as he came closer and kissed her under her ear. “Do you like it?” he breathed against her neck.

Pansy dropped her hands in the box and came up with a small, fluffy black kitten in her arms. It had blue eyes and soft fur that was a delight to touch. It looked at Pansy with eyes wide and let out a tiny meow. She couldn’t help smiling dumbly at the creature in her arms. It was so small and adorable, Pansy felt as if she were a little girl looking at unicorns for the first time again.

“Do you like it?” repeated Blaise, kissing her ear gently.

Pansy turned to capture his lips in a grateful kiss. “I do,” she replied against his lips, “what’s its name?” She returned her attention to the cat, pushed the box on the floor and put the animal in her lap.

“It’s yours,” replied Blaise, placing a finger in front of the kitten to make it play, “you call it whatever you like.” The kitten bit his finger jokingly. “It’s a boy.”

She looked intently at the kitten. He was black like the night, with pointy, white teeth that were trying to puncture Blaise’s skin without managing one bit. “Nightshade,” she finally decided.

Blaise groaned. “Can you not think about work at least once in your life?” He looked at her reproachfully. “Next thing I know you’ll be using it for one of your potions.”

“I could never!” she exclaimed affronted, scooping up the animal and squeezing him against her chest. “He’s so… so…”

“Adorable?” asked Blaise, chuckling.

Pansy nodded as she released the cat. She looked at him as he tried to jump down from her legs, but found the height too daring. She made her fingers slide under his belly and placed him on floor. She looked as he trailed about, sniffing first Pansy’s bare feet and then the floor itself before disappearing under the couch.

Pansy smiled and turned to look at Blaise. “Come on,” she coaxed gently, “what is this present for?”

Blaise circled her waist with his arms and pulled her to him, making her sit on his lap. “I can’t tell you,” he murmured as she brought her arms around his neck, “you’re going to be mad if I do.”

Pansy’s face hardened slightly, her brow furrowed as she thought hard. What was the day again? Wasn’t it Friday? What date? It was July, nothing happened in July… “Blaise…” she warned as his hands came to rest on her hipbone. “What is it?”

Blaise took a deep breath and looked away. “It’s our anniversary,” he finally breathed almost apologetically.

Pansy swallowed. “Blaise,” she replied softly, “we don’t have an anniversary.”

Blaise looked back at her and grinned. “Let me rephrase that,” he offered, “it’s the anniversary of the first time I fucked you.”

Pansy’s mouth closed in a thin and severe line. She withdrew her arms from him and crossed them on her chest, glaring at him. “I knew it was another one of your slushy things,” she hissed.

He pulled her to him until her side was against his chest. “No, no, no,” he corrected her hurriedly, “you’re taking it all wrong. I’m celebrating sex, what’s mushy about that?” He smirked. “If I said that it was the anniversary of our first kiss or the first time I said that you were beautiful, then… that would have been slushy…”

Pansy tried to ignore the fact that if it was the anniversary of their first time together, it meant it was the anniversary of their first kiss and the first time he had told her that she was beautiful too. She couldn’t help smiling slightly at Blaise and as soon as her face softened, the man’s arms pulled her once again against him.

“So, it’s okay if I got you a present even if it goes against rule number 24?” he asked softly.

“I thought you didn’t follow those rules,” she pointed out as she let him caress her hair and kiss her head.

He laughed with mirth. “Right,” he replied, “happy anniversary, Pansy.”

Pansy poked his chest with a long finger. “Now, don’t push it, Blaise,” she growled, but she found out that her tone was not too serious.

He laughed again and grabbed Pansy’s chin to make her tilt her head back and look at him. “So,” he murmured, his eyes slowly clouding with desire, “are you going to thank me for the present?”

Pansy wetted her lips. “Only if you promise you won’t give me anymore gifts,” she replied.

“I can’t promise that,” he sighed thoughtfully, “but your arse against my groin is making me hard, and I would love if you could do something about it…”

Pansy checked the Grandfather Clock near the fireplace. “Something quick,” she replied, sliding off his lap and kneeling between his legs, “I have to work tomorrow.”

Blaise observed her as she unzipped him and fished his member out of his underwear. “I’m never quick,” he told her sternly.

She giggled as she brought her lips to the head of his shaft. She could feel it filling as she touched him, becoming hard under her fingers. She kissed it and kissed her way down to his balls. She took his balls in her mouth and sucked and licked them until she could hear a moan escaping his lips. She withdrew slightly and licked her way back up to the head, then opened her lips and descended on his erection. She went as far as she could go, her hand wrapped around the base and followed her movements as if it was an extension of her mouth. She used her tongue and sucked alternatively, bobbing her head up and down while her hair made her probably look like a jelly fish swimming in the water.

She released him with a pop and looked up at him as she continued to use her hands on his erection. Blaise’s eyes were fixed on her, lips parted in either lust or for the effort of taking in as much air as possible. He moved slowly as he  brought his hands to her hair, enlaced his fingers in her locks and guided her head back on him. She let him direct her head and he did until all of him was sheltered in her mouth and her eyes shone with tears and she couldn’t breathe. She pushed a hand against his lower abdomen and he let her go with a loud, “Ah!”

She didn’t look up as she engulfed him again. She sucked and licked him where he liked to be sucked and licked and soon he was bucking his hips against her and grabbing the cushions of her couch.

“Pansy…” he groaned as he came into her mouth. He liked to say her name and she didn’t complain. Draco had never said her name once, so it was a nice diversion. She swallowed and tried to concentrate on Blaise. She couldn’t believe that after a year of screwing him she would still think about Draco. But it was exactly like that. She always thought of him.

She swallowed until she felt his member becoming flaccid in her mouth, then she raised her head and looked up at him. “You were quick,” she smirked.

He darkened. “Well,” he grunted crossly, “you were good.”

She cleaned the sides of her mouth with her fingers. “Thank you,” she smiled.

He smiled at her before letting out a sudden and unexpected cry of pain. “That little monster!” he complained, raising his leg to show her the kitten attached on his ankle. “Take him off!”

Pansy couldn’t even try to pretend that it wasn’t funny. She grabbed the little kitten in her hands and he started purring at her. “Monster?” she asked, rubbing her cheek against the cat’s muzzle. “This is not a monster, it’s a fluffy little darling.”

She looked up at Blaise, and he groaned, “I should have gotten you a Pygmy Puff.”

***

Pansy stirred in her king size bed and pushed away the covers with a lazy gesture. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, her lacy nightgown brushing her legs. She stretched her arms over her head and walked towards the small window. She grabbed the heavy drapes and pulled them open.

The sun was still not completely risen, but the view before her was breathtaking. Wizards and Muggles hurried in the small streets of Venice as boats and gondolas navigated the Grand Canal with a distinctive laziness. The ancient Rialto Bridge was already swarming with tourists who were trying to take the most suggestive pictures of the city at dawn and the inviting scent of coffee and brioches filled the air.

She smiled. She couldn’t believe she was finally in Italy. Finally on holiday. She had yearned for one for eight years, but never actually found the courage to close the shop and leave. But now, a holiday was very much what she needed.

Her quest for the perfect poison was still far from finished. She had found a way to put Knotgrass and Acromantula venom together before boiling the potion so that it became untraceable in the body, but still, she had Transfigured a button into a squirrel and the poor thing had squirmed painfully till it got back to being a part of her jacket. She had perfected a dozen other potions though, and they were a success in the apothecary. But she was growing frustrated with the poison. And that was one of the reasons why she had finally decided to get away.

The second reason was the dreams that she had been having. Every single night for over a month, she had been dreaming about Draco. Every night. He hugged her, he made love to her, he talked to her, he took her for a walk in the gardens of the Manor, or he asked her to meet him in an empty classroom after curfew. She always woke up out of breath and didn’t want to go back to sleep. They were not unpleasant dreams, but every time she opened her eyes she was hit by the reality that it was just a reverie and she was left there in a bitter state of bewilderment. She didn’t know what had started those dreams nor why she was having them so often, but every time she fell asleep the face of the man that used to be her only happiness filled her visions, and she let him do whatever he wanted to her.

She hadn’t told Blaise about the dreams, because Blaise was the third reason why she had decided to take a holiday. He had tried hard to come with her, but she had left unexpectedly, closing the shop on a Friday night to grab a Portkey to the foyer of a small and cosy inn in Magical Venice. She hadn’t told him where she was going, nor had she left him or Millie an address where to contact her. She had to get away from him for a while. He was becoming increasingly jealous and possessive, and Pansy knew those were typical traits of someone who was becoming obsessed.

Once, he had walked in the apothecary the moment in which a middle-aged, handsome client was asking her if she was married. Chaos had ensued. He had hexed the man, Pansy had petrified Blaise, and once she had righted his wrong and given the man a complimentary Felix Felicis, she had pushed the dark skinned man in the back of the shop and they had fought so wildly and loudly that Pansy’s voice had become raw.

In the end, he had stormed out of the shop, letting the old front door bang at his back, and Pansy had cursed him until she had no more bad words in her vocabulary. He wrote to her that same evening, asking for forgiveness and wanting to take her out for dinner. She didn’t reply to him, but he came to her flat anyway and they had a bruising session of make-up sex. He cradled her in his arms until the next morning afterwards, breaking in one day at least five different rules, amongst which was no cuddling and no spending the night together.

When Pansy thought about him, she wondered why she kept letting him do whatever he wanted with her. For the briefest of moments she had considered being in love with him, but she had shaken that feeling off quite easily and laughed at herself. She was not in love with Blaise, she liked him and she thought he was good in bed. She liked to talk to him when she managed to get his mouth off her skin, and sometimes she had cooked for him and he had found everything delicious. But love was different. She didn’t think about him every second of her life, she didn’t long for him when he was not around, and she didn’t dream of him.

Pansy shook her head. Now she didn’t want to think about Blaise or Draco or whoever. She wanted to think only about herself. And maybe Nightshade, left back home alone with enough food and water to last for the weekend, and a small window open for him to trot out in Knockturn Alley as he liked so much to do. She missed him.

But now, all she wanted to do was to get dressed and walk through the streets of Venice with enough Galleons and Muggle money in her handbag to do everything she wanted. Yes, these two days were all about her, and she would do whatever she wanted. She would be free.

***

“How was your holiday?” asked Millie as she walked into the apothecary. She didn’t even say hello, nor check if there were clients. Well, that time she was lucky there weren’t, but Pansy couldn’t help rolling her eyes at her friend’s inconsideration.

“Marvellous,” replied Pansy, without being able to hide a smile. “Absolutely incredible.”

Millie approached the counter and beamed. “Oh, I want to come with you next time,” she chimed.

Pansy had to stifle a groan. It had been marvellous because she was alone. A weekend with Millie would have just been a nightmare. “Sure,” she muttered. “But you should ask Goyle to take you there, it would be much more romantic.”

Millie grinned. “Oh, I left him,” she informed her casually.

Pansy sighed. “Again?”

The plump girl shrugged her shoulders. “I had to,” she admitted, “Blaise came to me while you were away. He said he was in much need of having a real woman sucking him.” She smiled proudly at that comment. “Apparently the girl he is seeing now is not good enough.”

Pansy raised her chin and looked down at Millie with cold eyes. “Did he say that?” she asked icily. She had to hurry perfecting that poison because she knew exactly who to test it on.

“Kind of,” replied Millie slowly, “he doesn’t like to talk about her.” She let out a giggle and looked at Pansy. “Maybe she is a hag, with a hairy wart on her nose and a hunch on her back.”

Pansy couldn’t help smiling. She was glad that Blaise had managed to keep their encounters a secret from Millie. That was rule number four, no talking, especially with Millie, about their arrangement. He had told the plump witch that he was seeing someone, though, but Millie had been ten times less devastated than Pansy had expected. Part of it, she thought, was because she had been in an on-again-off-again relationship with Goyle ever since that night when Blaise had told her that he had commented on her appearance. Blaise had confessed to Pansy that it wasn’t true and that he didn’t even know if Goyle was at the Leaky Cauldron that night. He had just wanted to get rid of Millie.

“But I want to know everything about Venice,” chirped Millie, “start from the very beginning.”

***

“You’ve been on holiday,” Blaise’s tone was almost accusatory as he spoke, “and you didn’t even tell me!”

Pansy raised her eyebrows and looked at the man who had just walked into her shop. She shook her head and smiled. “I told you more than once that I would go to Italy…”

“Yes, but you didn’t tell me when or for how long you would be gone,” he protested, crossing his arms on his chest.

Pansy smirked. “Oh my, Blaise! Were you worrying for me?” she quipped.

His face hardened. “More like worrying for me,” he muttered, his eyes looking down at his groin for a split second before returning his gaze on her.

She furrowed her brow. “Really?” she asked, faking a surprised tone. “Because I’ve been told that I’m not very good at giving head.” After long consideration, she had decided that she couldn’t be less bothered than she was about that piece of information, but she wouldn’t have missed Blaise’s face as she told him that she knew what he had commented for anything in the world.

In fact, he looked shocked and surprised at her words. “Who told you that?” he asked, affronted.

Pansy smiled sweetly. “Millie,” she replied lightly, “apparently she is so much better than me. So much better that you sought her services while I was away.” She snorted. “And you made her break up with Goyle again.”

If Blaise’s cheeks hadn’t been so dark already, she was sure she could have seen the blush on them. “I was angry with you,” he grumbled curtly, “you left without even telling me. I was trying to get back at you… It didn’t mean anything.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Why on earth would I tell you if I want to go away for the weekend?” she asked annoyed.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” he hissed.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not yours, Blaise,” she snapped, “I can do anything I want.”

“Whatever,” he growled dismissively. “Did you have fun?” he added coldly.

Pansy looked at his pouting face and sighed. “Yes,” she replied, her voice no more dripping with aggressiveness, “you wouldn’t have liked it, though. I was on a shopping spree.”

He curved his lips in a shy smile. “No, I wouldn’t,” he admitted softly. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course,” she lied. She smiled seductively and added, “Why don’t you come tonight and I’ll show you just how much I’ve missed you?”

“I can’t,” he groaned, “Mother is throwing a party to find a new husband, and I’m required to be a good host and welcome the guests.”

Pansy cocked an eyebrow. “You know,” she pointed out, “at 34 you might want to start looking for a house for yourself.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just waiting for Mother to bite the dust and then I’ll have the estate all for myself,” he replied matter-of-factly, “but that witch seems to have drunk a de-aging potion because she looks younger every year that passes.” He sighed then looked at Pansy with wide eyes. “You can come if you want,” he added excitedly, “you can be my date.”

She cringed at the word, but didn’t feel like telling him off again. She shook her head slightly, and luckily a new customer walked in the apothecary. Her attention switched to the old woman, almost forgetting about the handsome man who kept looking at her with longing eyes.

***

“Oh, damn it! Damn it, damn it, damn it!” cried Pansy in frustration. She kicked the cauldron off the fire and let the potion run on the floor. It looked like water. Thick, jelly water. It was colourless, but still sent out a vague smell of rotten eggs. That was definitely not going to be the perfect poison.

She raised her wand and Vanished the liquid. It was late, she was tired, and she had a headache. She had spent so much time on that potion that she was starting to believe that the perfect poison didn’t exist. And every time she thought that, she knew it was time for a new project, time to take a break from the thing that had been driving her crazy for the past nine years.

She switched off the lights in the shop and locked the door, turning the sign behind the glass. She needed a hot soup and a bath to take off the stench of the potion, and then a good night sleep. Blaise was on a business trip in India again, and she was grateful for that. 

She opened the door to her flat, and Nightshade hurried to rub against her legs. He looked up at her as if he wanted to tell her something, and opened his mouth to meow in his own melodic way. Pansy crouched on the floor to rub between his ears, and the cat purred.

Of all the presents that Blaise had given her through the years – and there had been a lot of them – Nightshade was her favourite. He wasn’t clingy, he wasn’t messy, he wanted just the right amount of cuddling. He had attacked Blaise’s leg while they were having sex that one time that they had forgotten to close the bedroom door, and made Pansy’s laugh until she couldn’t breathe. He was a bit loud during the mating season, but she could cope with that.

“Are you hungry?” she asked as the cat leaned his front paws on her legs and stretched his neck to rub against her chin. She delighted in the warmth of the animal and scooped him up in her arms. She brought him to the kitchen and fed him with chicken kidneys and hearts. When he had licked the plate clean, Nightshade followed her into the bathroom and rolled up near the heater as she shed her clothes and immersed herself in the hot water. She lay down until her head was resting against the bathtub rim, and closed her eyes.

She could have stayed there forever, or at least until her stomach grumbled with hunger and her fingertips became all white and wrinkly and the water turned to ice. She lazily stretched an arm towards the soap that Millie had given her as a Christmas present, and squeezed the content on her palm. She lathered up her legs one after the other then her stomach and up to her chest. She brushed her fingers on the scar at her side and bit her bottom lip at the river of memories that it brought back.

_I hurt you…_

She snapped her eyes open to look around herself. She was alone. It was all in her head. Again. She closed her eyes once more and swallowed. “It doesn’t matter, Draco,” she murmured softly, “it doesn’t matter.”

***

Millie lay on the couch of the flat that once again she was sharing with Goyle. Her legs covered in a soft blanket, her hands unwrapping Chocolate Frog after Chocolate Frog until a pile of wrapping papers was starting to form on the floor.

“I say you come anyway,” she insisted as she munched on the chocolate. “I’m sure it’s going to be fun!”

Pansy tightened her arms around her legs and rolled her eyes from the armchair opposite to her friend. “I haven’t been invited, Millie.”

“I’m inviting you right now,” chirped the girl.

Pansy was starting to regret having accepted a dinner invitation at Millie’s. It was well past eight and nothing was ready and Millie was stuffing her face with chocolate, was that what she had meant when she said supper?

“Thank you,” she replied, gritting her teeth, “but you are not the host, you can’t invite me.”

“Oh, I’m sure your invitation was lost in the mail,” she grunted, “you and Draco were so close at Hogwarts. He would never not invite you to his son’s eleventh birthday party.”

Pansy sighed. Millie didn’t know anything about her and Draco, and sometimes it was a blessing, but sometimes it was a curse, for she liked to talk and talk without noticing how irritating that was. “Aren’t you going to get anything ready, Millie?” she finally asked. “I’m starting to feel a bit peckish.”

The stout girl threw her a Chocolate Frog and smirked. “To quench your huger,” she explained, “and we’re having take out.”

“Well, then, shouldn’t we order?” she asked, pocketing the Chocolate Frog for later.

“I’ve already done that,” giggled Millie, “Goyle is picking it up.”

Pansy bit her bottom lip. “So he’ll join us for dinner?” she asked, trying to sound as casual as possible. She didn’t particularly like Goyle. He was loud and dumb and couldn’t keep his hands off Millie, and sometimes off her too when Millie wasn’t looking.

“Yes,” confirmed Millie, “he wasn’t too pleased to know I invited you, actually. You know, he thinks you’re a bit of a drag when it’s up to having fun.” She giggled as if that was funny.

Pansy closed her eyes. If he asked her to leave, she would have done so and she would have been grateful. If not, she would have endured the dinner up until she couldn’t take it anymore and then excused herself, for it would surely be late and she had to work the next day.

Green flames erupted from the fireplace as Goyle stepped out with a pile of small, paper boxes in his hands. “Bloody Longbottom,” he growled, shaking his head like a dog and letting a shower of tiny drops of sweat fall all around him, “I’m sure she raised the prices again.”

“Finally!” exclaimed Millie without even bothering answering him. “I’m starving.”

Goyle walked to the couch where Millie was sitting up and collapsed next to her. “Parkinson,” he addressed her, looking at the boxes, “we got you… steak and kidney pie…” He handed her a round box with a description of the dish scribbled sloppily on it and Pansy took it.

“Thanks,” she replied coldly. The box was already lukewarm, she wondered how disgusting it would be.

“For my little, fluffy spider,” he continued, “we have bangers and mash.” He handed Millie a box. “Fish and chips.” He handed her another. “And ham and eggs.” He gave her a third.

“Brilliant,” replied Millie, her eyes twinkling.

“And the rest is for me,” he added with a grunt of satisfaction, grabbing possessively the remaining five boxes. He raised his beady eyes on Pansy and nodded. “Dig in.”

Pansy opened the box and found a disposable fork in it. How fancy! She raised her eyes on her hosts and noticed that they were already stuffing their faces with their food.

She stabbed the pie with the fork and brought a bite to her mouth. Surprisingly, it was good. Not as tasty as her own pies, but still good. She was sure that the fact that it was getting cold didn’t help the taste at all though, and soon it would be too cold to endure. She took another bite, and by the time she had a third one in her mouth, Millie had already discarded the first box on the floor.

“It’s good,” sentenced Millie, spluttering food on the blanket.

“Better than what you cook,” agreed Goyle, choking and coughing on some food.

“Pansy is a good cook,” Millie told him, nodding towards her.

Goyle’s watery eyes looked at her with scepticism. “Are you?”

“I get by,” she replied vaguely, not wanting to have to invite them over. She changed the subject quickly, “Are you going to Malfoy’s son’s birthday party?”

“Yes, I invited him,” chirped Millie, looking at Pansy meaningfully.

Goyle swallowed a gigantic piece of meat without even chewing it. “Excuse me,” he spluttered, “Malfoy invited me. I’m one of his closest friends.” He looked at Pansy with a half smirk. “Aren’t you?”

“She wasn’t invited,” Millie informed him with a shrug.

Pansy rolled her eyes and closed the box containing the half-eaten pie. “Thank you,” she gritted through her teeth. “I think I better be going,” she added, “it’s late already and I—”

“—have to work tomorrow,” Millie finished for her with a sneer. “We know.”

Goyle laughed hard at his girlfriend’s wit and Pansy eyed him warily. She stood up and placed the box on the coffee table in front of her, sure that the food wouldn’t have gone wasted in that house.

“See you, Parkinson,” grunted Goyle curtly as he gobbled down some more undefined meat.

“I’ll swing by tomorrow,” added Millie, not caring to look up from her fish and chips.

Pansy nodded and stepped into the fireplace. She wanted to be miles away, in another country, on another holiday. Alone. Completely alone.

***

Pansy woke up with a start. There was someone in her flat. Someone big and clumsy who, judging by the noises coming from her living room, had just bumped into her armchair. She grabbed her wand and muttered a very soft, “ _Lumos_.”

She pushed the covers away and made her way towards the living room. People believed that she was a defenceless woman because she lived alone, but they didn’t know just how much wrong they were.

“Bloody animal! Get off me!”

Pansy stopped as Nightshade hissed and meowed dangerously at Blaise. She involuntarily smiled at the thought of the cat defending her, even if it wasn’t from a stranger.

She walked into the living room and switched on the light. Blaise was standing in the middle of the room, looking like a deer caught by the light of a wand. He looked at her and relaxed a little. “Good, you’re up,” he growled, his words slurred as he staggered towards her.

“You woke me up,” she let him know coldly, arms crossed on her chest. “Blaise, what are you doing here?”

He finally reached her and pulled her in a tight embrace, lowering his head to kiss her roughly. She tasted the alcohol on his lips and in his breath, and tried to move back, but despite his drunken state he kept her firmly in place until he had to come up for air. Nightshade hissed behind him.

“You’re drunk,” she informed him matter-of-factly. She placed a hand on his chest and tried to wiggle free from him, she didn’t manage. She pushed her other hand on his stomach and pushed with both hands.

He let her go immediately as if she was a bomb ready to explode, groaning in the process. “What’s wrong with you, woman?” he asked her sourly, as he massaged his stomach.

Pansy raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you were that delicate,” she replied curtly.

“You would be too, if you’d just been punched,” he slurred, shaking his head and staggering a bit more.

Pansy furrowed her brow. “Punched?” she asked puzzled. “Who would punch you?”

He smirked and brought a finger to his lips. “Shh,” he whispered, “it’s a secret.”

She crossed her arms again and eyed him warily. “Shouldn’t you be at the Manor for a birthday party?” she asked coldly.

He shrugged his shoulders. “The party was lame,” he grunted, “and I needed to see you.” He grinned at her and came closer again. “I need to fuck you until you beg me.” He lowered his head to kiss her again and brought a warm hand to her breast.

Pansy took a deep breath and withdrew from him. “I never beg,” she let him know, “and I don’t think you are in the right state to be able to fuck me.”

He pouted like a child, then his face fell. “You’re right,” he replied, despair in his voice, “I’m not here to shag you.” He grabbed her hands and knelt down in front of her, slowly and with evident difficulties.

“Blaise?” she called him as the man raised his eyes on her and drew a deep breath. “What the hell…?”

“Shh,” he cut her off, pushing a finger against her lips. “Pansy Parkinson,” he cleared his throat, “will you marry me?”

Pansy stood completely still, her eyes wide as she listened to those four simple words and looked at Blaise. He was drunk, but serious. She could feel his hand clutching at hers and wondered if he would have stayed there forever if she didn’t reply to him. He looked back at her with clouded, but expectant eyes, as if part of him really believed that there was a possibility for him to hear her assent.

“No,” she replied tersely. She had never had a rule against him asking to marry her, but only because she had never felt it necessary. And even if there had been a rule, she was sure that Blaise would have ignored it.

His face fell, but he didn’t let go of her hand, even when she tried to slip through his fingers. “But I love you,” he whined, his drunken voice tiny.

Pansy swallowed. “Blaise, that’s rule number three,” she reminded him coldly, “no falling in—”

“I’m fed up with your rules,” he cried, standing up, “I’m fed up with your attitude and I’m fed up with seeing you only on your conditions.” He took a couple of unsteady steps towards her and let out a growl.

Pansy pointed her wand at him. “You are drunk,” she told him, “and if you don’t go home now, you could hurt yourself.”

Blaise smirked. “You wouldn’t dare,” he slurred, taking another step towards her, “because you love me too.”

She closed her lips into a thin line and looked coldly at him. “I don’t,” she replied icily, “you are just someone I like to fuck.”

His face hardened, and for a moment his eyes lost part of the daze given by the alcohol. He stood perfectly still as if her words had slapped him so forcefully that he couldn’t be able to move afterwards. Then, out of the blue, he darted his hand to her wand and got hold of it, tearing it from her fist in a swift movement and tossing it on the floor.

“Blaise!” she exclaimed outraged. She made to pick it up, but he was faster than her and grabbed her waist and tossed her over his shoulder – the fact that compared to him she was thin as a lathe helped him.

She raised her head and punched and fisted at his back as he carried her towards the bedroom. “Blaise,” she cried, “let me go!”

He shut the door at his back and Pansy caught a glimpse of Nightshade looking at her with eyes filled with fury. Blaise let her go only when he was standing at the foot of the bed, and he dumped her on the mattress with a subtle creaking of springs. She looked up at him, her face screwed in anger. “What’s wrong with you?” she cried, trying to sit up and get off the bed.

He pushed her back down. “You,” he growled, grabbing her wrists and pulling them together above her head. He pointed his wand at her and she found her hands tied to the bedpost.

She let out a cry of despair as her eyes widened. That was the same exact position in which Borgin had tortured her years before, and Blaise was wearing the same expression of her late husband on his face. She felt her heart beating furiously in her chest as she tried to free her hands.

Blaise knelt next to her, swung a leg over her stomach and sat on her lower abdomen, his legs pushing on her thighs. “I know,” he growled and his voice was still slightly slurred, “rule number eight, no tying up.” He smirked. “But we are going to break every rule tonight, each and every single rule.” He lowered his face to hers and kissed her, his hand on her chin keeping her in place. “And I can’t wait to get to the no anal rule,” he whispered against her lips.

She tensed up and gritted her teeth. Was this her fault? Had she teased him and led him on, and now was he getting back at her? She shook her head. She hated him so much now.

He straightened his back and looked down at her, seriously. “Rule number one,” he began, “no talking.” He cleared his throat. “What’s the deal between you and Malfoy?” he hissed.

Pansy’s struggles to get free stopped as she looked at him with a surprised expression. “There’s no deal between Malfoy and me,” she bit out.

He crossed his arms. “Then why did he punch me when I said that you were the tightest cunt I’ve ever fucked?” he asked venomously.

Pansy’s lips parted in surprise and she stopped struggling all together. Draco had punched Blaise. Draco had punched Blaise because he had said that he was fucking her. She closed her eyes to let the realisation sink in. It had been almost ten years ever since she last saw him and he… he still cared… Pansy couldn’t help smiling a little.

But Blaise… Saying that in front of Draco! How dared he? She would make him pay. That was rule number four, no talking of their relationship!

“If you don’t speak,” growled Blaise from above her, “I’m sure I can find a stash of Veritaserum downstairs.”

Pansy’s eyes snapped open and she glared at Blaise. “As I said,” she hissed, “there is no deal between Malfoy and me.” She smirked. “Maybe he just didn’t like your language.” She raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you his son’s godfather?”

Blaise darkened slightly and looked away. “Maybe,” he conceded in a whisper.

“Great,” she snapped forcefully, struggling a bit more, “now untie me or I swear Blaise, I’m going to hex your balls off when I manage to free myself.”

He smirked as if he didn’t find her threatening at all. “No,” he drawled, “rule number two.” He raised his bottom from her body and pulled up her nightgown. He didn’t stop until it was around her breasts, her scar visible on her expanding ribcage. “No touching of your lovely scar,” he murmured, tracing the dragon with his fingertips. He bent over her until his mouth was on her scarred skin, and he licked it as if it was the most erotic thing he had ever done.

She shivered, the horrible sensation made her stomach churn. She felt one of his hands go to her breast as he pushed the nightgown higher and started to knead the flesh roughly. He sighed against her scarred skin and bit playfully at the dragon.

When he withdrew, Pansy’s face was a mask of horror and fear. She had her eyes closed and was trying to push those feelings at the back of her head. This reminded her too much of Borgin, and all she wanted was to get free, but she found her body heavy and still with fear.

She took a deep breath, and a single tear escaped the corner of her eye, rolling down her cheek to her jaw. She waited for him to keep counting the rules, but he didn’t. Instead, she felt her hands being untied. Blaise got off of her and lay down next to her. Next thing she knew, he was hugging her and pulling her to him.

“I’m so horrible,” he whispered, and his words were almost choked with sobs. “But I just love you so much and you don’t even care,” he whined.

Pansy wasn’t sure that someone who loved her should treat her like Blaise had just done. She didn’t reply to him, she let him hug her tightly and cradle her slowly in his arms.

Minutes passed, and Blaise didn’t seem to want to let her go, and at some point she wondered if he had fallen asleep.

“Say something,” he finally begged, showing that he hadn’t.

She slid on the mattress, and he didn’t stop her as she sat on her bed and gave him her back. “I think we should stop seeing each other,” she sentenced as calmly and as softly as she could.

She felt him sit up as well. “Oh no,” he complained, “no, no, no.” He crawled to where she was sitting and grabbed her hand. “Please,” he pleaded, “Pansy, don’t leave me.”

She shook her head and looked at him. “That’s the problem, Blaise,” she murmured softly, “we’re not together.”

“I know,” he replied hurriedly, “I know, I’m sorry.” He massaged her hand with his fingers and gave her a small smile. “I just want to continue this.”

She shook her head. “You need to find yourself a young, pretty wife, Blaise,” she whispered, “someone who will give you an heir and make you happy.”

“And then she’ll kill me,” he growled. “I don’t want a wife.”

Pansy closed her eyes. “Then why on earth did you just ask me to marry you?” she questioned, annoyed.

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. “Because you would never kill me, Pansy,” he murmured, “you would never do that.”

“How can you know?”

“I just do…”

She opened her eyes and freed her hand from him. He looked dumbly at her. “If you tie me up another time,” she hissed, “or break another rule or tell anybody else that I’m the tightest cunt you’ve ever fucked, or force me to do anything, even the stupidest thing, I swear to Merlin, Blaise, I will transfigure you into a cake and give you to Millie and Goyle as a present.”

Blaise swallowed loudly. “I swear…” he whined, “I swear, I won’t…”

Pansy nodded. “Now get out of my house,” she hissed, “I’ll write to you when I want to see you.”

***

Pansy didn’t write to Blaise for weeks, and he never came to see her once. She couldn’t decide if she had scared him off with the cake threat, or if he was just contrite for the way he had treated her and was afraid he could lose her now. But Pansy enjoyed keeping him at a distance, imagining his pain and his longing as he waited for an owl from her.

Through Millie she came to know that he had never visited her nor asked for a tryst or a quick blow job. Her friend was almost more dejected than Pansy at the news, especially now that Goyle seemed to have left her for good. Pansy thought it was not a good sign if Blaise hadn’t visited Millie to quench his lust, it only meant that he was probably really in love with her.

And ever since he had told her about Draco’s reaction to the way he had described her, Pansy was confused. She felt ancient feelings that she had thought she had managed to bury under a pile of ‘I don’t care’s’ resurface slowly. She didn’t want to think about it, though. It was useless and she had no time to waste on such thoughts. Draco was part of her past, she could do nothing about it. She had decided it years before, and nothing would make her change her mind. Not even what she held in her heart.

***

Pansy came to the conclusion that the ingredients in the perfect poison were not as important as the preparation. She had used every single venom and poisonous ingredient in various combinations with other poisons or herbs or distillates, but she had never reached the desired result. The poison was still too smelly, or, as she fed one of the rats that she managed to catch in the back of the shop, it was too painful, or it dyed their little tongues blue or their eyes black, or made their blood turn green and putrescent.

So she had come to the conclusion that probably she was doing something wrong with the preparation of the poison itself. Maybe she wasn’t boiling it long enough, or she wasn’t letting it rest enough to make it lose the smell. And that had been exactly her thought when she had gone to bed the night before, completely knackered and exhausted by and intense day of working in the shop and on the potion. She had gone to bed hungry and dirty, too tired to eat or to take a bath.

And now she woke up almost more tired than before. She stretched her arms above her head and let out a deep breath. She opened her sleepy eyes and looked around herself. She had a weird feeling, as if something was missing, but she didn’t know quite what.

She pushed the covers off of her and walked to the bathroom on tiptoes, stretching her thin legs in the process. She looked at her reflection in the mirror and cringed. Her make-up from the day before was smudged around her eyes, and her hair was a nest of knots. She washed her face and combed her locks until her head was once again a tidy and shiny bob. Still, she felt weird. Something, something that she couldn’t quite understand, was not right.

She went into the kitchen and brewed herself a cup of tea before sitting down at the table with the newest issue of the Daily Prophet. She was still too sleepy to make any sense out of the words though, so she let her eyes wander for the kitchen. Everything seemed in perfect order: teapot on the counter, flowers on the table, Nightshade’s plates on the floor…

She put down the mug with the tea. She finally understood. Nightshade. The cat usually slept on her bed or jumped on her feet when he heard her stirring. Not that morning though.

Pansy called him with the sweet tone of voice that she used only with him. But the cat never replied.

Of course, this was not the first time, and Pansy wasn’t too worried. But then she started to grow concerned when she walked to the door of her flat and found it open. She stared at it without understanding. Had she left it open? How could she do something like that? She had never done it, but the night before she had been so tired… And she could barely remember her steps as she had gone to bed.

She walked down the stairs to the back of the shop and called for Nightshade again, and this time there was a barely audible reply to her words. A meowing that seemed to come from the hereafter. “Nightshade?” she called again, as she ran the last steps that led to the shop.

She stopped in her tracks when she saw the puddle of blood. Green and smelly blood that covered most of the floor, and a dead rat, slashed open from head to its tiny paws lay in the middle of the room. Next to it, Nightshade was lying too. A white foam dribbling from his mouth to the floor, his eyes clouded with impending death.

Pansy brought her hands to her mouth as a lump formed at her throat. She walked hurriedly to her pet and raised him from the floor. “No,” she sobbed, placing the animal on her lap and stroking his blood covered fur. “No.”

The cat was barely breathing, but when Pansy turned his head up to look at him, he let out a soft meow. Pansy felt the tears roll down her cheeks. “No,” she repeated, “no, you are going to be all right.” She looked at the dead rat and cursed herself for not having disposed of it the night before, then she cursed again for not having closed the door that led to the shop.

She frantically looked around herself. What to give him? Nothing came to her upset mind, and as she kept stroking the dying cat she understood that she was too shocked to manage to think at all.

She returned her eyes to the poor creature. Blood was starting to form at the corner of his eyes, as if he was about to cry crimson tears. Pansy let out a desperate cry as she clutched the animal at her chest. The cat meowed again and Pansy thought that it sounded very much like a cry of pain.

It was clear that the animal was suffering and, despite the fact that Pansy was trying not to think about that, he was close to breathing his last breath.

She felt her heart swell as she was torn between what was right and what she wanted to do. On one hand, she had to feed him some poisons, her poison maybe, now that it had rested in the cauldron for the whole night, to make its death as peaceful as possible. But on the other hand, she just couldn’t bring herself to kill the only thing that she thought she had ever loved.

But she had to think about Nightshade, not about her. She stood up with difficulty and carried the dying animal to the cauldron, her heart beating furiously in her chest as she did so. She felt her head light, as if it were just a dream. She tried to lull the animal in her arms, but the cat only meowed feebly.

She was crying now, and her hand was shaking as she found a spoon and brought it to the potion in the cauldron. She filled it and, spilling a lot of liquid, she brought it to the animal. She poured it between his tiny fangs and closed the animal’s mouth.

“You’re going to be all right,” she murmured as the animal swallowed, “you are going to be all right.”

She felt the animal stop breathing and she closed her eyes, not wanting to see him dying. Nightshade went limp in her arms.

Pansy stood there without wanting to open her eyes. She clutched the little body with her fingers, afraid to let him go, not wanting to believe that he was already gone. She was sobbing quietly now, her throat hurt her as she did. She had lost him, she had lost him forever. Still with her eyes closed, she let herself slide to the floor, her head aching now.

She was in such despair that at first she didn’t even notice that something was touching her chest. It took her a good few minutes to understand that there was something tiny and round pushing against her breast. She finally opened her eyes to look down, and her mouth hung open in surprise.

Nightshade was looking up at her with his lively green eyes wide open. Had it all been a nightmare? No, there still was foam on his furry chin and blood around his mouth, but the animal was definitely alive.

He meowed loudly and tried to turn in Pansy’s arms. She let him, and the cat jumped down, turned and leaned his front paws on her legs to stretch his figure and lick her tears away. She let him do it, too mesmerised to do anything. Her head still ached for the scare and her heart was still beating at a tremendous speed in her chest. What had happened? The cat bit jokingly at her nose and she seemed to wake up from a dream.

She looked at him as he purred and rubbed against her, and then her eyes raised on the cauldron where her potion rested.

What in Merlin’s name had she brewed?

She could think of only one thing.

 _Not_  poison.

***

Pansy’s vault at Gringotts was swarming with Galleons. Ever since she had perfected, tested and registered with the Ministry the potion she had created, she was making so much money that she wouldn’t have to work another day in her life. She kept working every single day, though.

She called it Nightshade Draught, which she thought extremely witty because there was no Nightshade in that potion at all. St Mungo’s had stipulated a contract with her. She was to send ten boxes of the draught every month, and she made them pay a lot for it. In exchange, she also asked them to keep note of the various uses of the potion, because as it turned out, it was a bit temperamental. It worked if someone had been slashed by a steel blade, but not by an iron blade. It could be used as an antidote for the Acromantula venom, but not for the Weedosoros. It healed a slashed throat, but not someone who had been stabbed in the chest, and so on. The Healers as well as Pansy were constantly updating the draught entry in Potions manuals and specialised magazines.

And Pansy had been awarded a Second Class Order of Merlin for her discovery. At first she had thought it would have been fun to tell everybody the truth: that the invention of the draught had been a serendipitous event, while she was actually trying to create the perfect poison, but when a very annoying Rita Skeeter appeared at her shop to interview her, she lied in favour of saying that she had been trying to find a cure to all evils for all her life.

When the article came out, she could almost imagine people that she knew laughing at her softened attitude. She didn’t care. She was rich and getting richer by the minute, and surely wasn’t going to give all that up by admitting that she was looking for a way to kill people without being discovered instead of helping them. She was an excellent liar, and even Skeeter seemed satisfied.

The article and the award brought many interesting side-effects too. Her parents wrote to her, telling her how proud they were and that they were ready to welcome her back in their family. She threw away the letter without even replying to them. She knew what they were after, and they weren’t getting any from her.

Lucius wrote to her too. And she was bewildered when she opened his letter. He told her that the potion didn’t work on dragon pox. Weirdly enough, he too told her that he was proud of her. And he told her she had been right. About what, Pansy didn’t know. Two weeks later his death was announced in the Daily Prophet. He had died of the same disease of his father before him. Pansy felt a slight sadness as she read about it.

Blaise took her to Paris to celebrate. She let him. They didn’t even see the city, but they had sex on every single surface of their suite, and Blaise covered her in macarons and ate them off her body. She let him do that too.

Millie was the only one who didn’t seem to understand that Pansy was now a celebrity. She kept walking into the shop at any time and gossiping about every other person. Pansy kept bearing with her because she was still the only person that she could call a friend.

Nightshade had never gone into the shop again, and Pansy had never left the door open either.

***

Blaise kissed the small of her back. “You are suitable now,” he whispered against her spine.

Pansy took a deep breath and shook her head on the pillow. “Don’t call me that,” she admonished him.

“But you are,” he told her, “a suitable prospective wife for whoever wanted you.” He kissed his way up to her shoulder blades. “And Merlin,  _I want you_.”

Pansy closed her eyes and leaned her head on her arms. She purred like a cat when he licked her neck. “I’m too old to marry,” she sighed.

“Rubbish,” he murmured in her ear, “if you are old, then I’m old.”

Pansy giggled softly. “You are,” she told him.

“Forty is not old,” he growled.

Pansy shifted on the bed. “Don’t remind me my age,” she sighed bitterly, “that’s the mirror’s duty.”

“Well, then that mirror is lying to you,” he murmured, placing his warm hands on her sides, careful to avoid her scar, “because you look like you’re twenty.” He started to tickle her sides and she squirmed under his attack. She placed her hands on his own and tried to push him away, kicking and swaying her arms about.

“No, Blaise!” she laughed.

“I know where you’re most ticklish and I—bloody beast!” He let Pansy go suddenly and turned away from her. Curling in a ball on the bed, he brought his calf close to his face and massaged it. “Pansy, that hellish cat of yours bit me again,” he growled.

Pansy laughed unsympathetically. “Oh Blaise,” she quipped, patting the bed next to her to call Nightshade. The cat jumped near her and rubbed his nuzzle against her face. “He’s just a cat,” she reminded him, “and you gave him to me.”

“A mistake I’ll pay for the rest of my life,” he grunted. “He hates me.”

Pansy rubbed the animal between his ears and he purred. “Yes, he does,” she grinned amused, “and he really doesn’t like it when you make me scream. He thinks you’re hurting me.”

Nightshade licked Pansy’s cheek before turning to look at Blaise with flaming green eyes and hissing menacingly. Blaise glared at his and followed with his eyes as the cat jumped back on the floor and trotted out of the room with his tail up high, as if his mission was accomplished and he had saved Pansy from the big, bad man.

“I think you should go now,” she told him, folding her legs under her body and kneeling up on the bed.

“Because you have to work,” grunted Blaise bitterly.

Pansy’s lips curled into a smile. “I see you understand, Mr Zabini.” She crawled to the edge of the bed and stood up. She avoided looking at her reflection in the full length mirror as she walked past it, but she shivered as her skin covered in gooseflesh in the cold air of the room, and she hastily reached for a silk, pink nightgown at the end of the bed. She turned towards Blaise and batted her eyelashes at him before disappearing into the bathroom.

She turned on the water in the tub and tapped her wand to heat it. She shed the nightgown on the floor, walked into the tub and lay down. When she closed her eyes she took a deep breath.

She saw Draco’s face.

She smiled.

***

Pansy was laughing so hard she could feel the muscles of her stomach contracting almost painfully. Nightshade was looking at her from the cushion of the couch where he was rolled up, without understanding what she was laughing about.

“That’s rich!” she finally exclaimed, crumpling the letter that she had been reading and throwing it over her shoulder. It landed on the floor with a subtle thud and she shook her head, snorts and giggles still shaking her body.

“Can you believe it, Nightshade?” she asked her cat. “I’ve been asked to give a speech at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” She shook her head. “ _You will have to speak after the interventions of Mr Harry Potter, Head Auror, and Professor Neville Longbottom_. I hardly think so.”

She crossed her legs under her body and closed her eyes. She imagined a multitude of raised hands asking her how did she manage to create the potion. She imagined it would be fun to scare them off by telling them that she was looking for a poison instead of a healing draught. She could picture the little Hufflepuffs squirming in their seats as the nice lady told them that she was actually an evil witch.

But no, Pansy Parkinson wouldn’t give a speech in front of the students at her former school. She couldn’t care less about inspiring and teaching the young minds. She just wanted them to leave her alone. She was fine where she was. She would always be fine as long as people left her alone.

***

_“I missed you…”_

_Pansy pushed her nose against Draco’s collarbone. “I know…”_

_“Did you miss me?” he asked her softly. “You never tell me…”_

She jerked awake with a start, clutching at the pillow in her arms. She could feel her heart beating furiously in her chest as she looked around and took in her surroundings. She was in her bed, in her room, in her flat above the apothecary.

She rolled over and bumped into a sleeping figure. She had to move a little to manage to turn on her side and stare at the man sleeping next to her.

Blaise didn’t look like he was forty-five at all. He looked younger, even younger than her. He was sleeping peacefully, facing her, his naked chest half-covered by her sheets. She looked at him and felt a wave of misery and dejection. She didn’t love him. She didn’t want him. She didn’t need him.

She brought a hand to his cheek and caressed it gently. Then she got closer to him and murmured his name.

“Hmm?” he replied sleepily, without opening his eyes.

“Blaise, wake up,” she called slightly more loudly.

The man opened his eyes suddenly. “What?” he asked concerned.

Pansy smiled miserably. “You have to go home.”

He half-rolled his eyes before closing them again. “Tomorrow morning, Pansy,” he replied softly, “we talked about this…”

“No,” she insisted a bit more forcefully, her hand sliding from his cheek to his shoulder to shake him awake, “you have to go now.”

He stretched an arm towards her and pulled her to his chest, crushing her in a tight embrace. “What’s wrong?” he asked, leaning his cheek against her head.

Pansy swallowed. “I can’t see you anymore,” she murmured against his warm skin.

“I thought we weren’t seeing each other,” he growled, his fingers tapping her shoulder blades.

She took a deep breath. “You know what I mean,” she whispered. 

He sighed. “Again, Pansy?” he asked softly. “Again this story? You know you always come back to me…”

Pansy shook her head. “Not this time.”

He tightened his arms around her until she found it difficult to breathe, and had to push on his chest to let him know. He stopped squeezing but didn’t release her. “You think I don’t know what’s going on?” he asked her softly.

“Nothing’s going on,” she murmured.

“You think I don’t hear you calling his name when you sleep?” He caressed her hair as if to let her know that he was not angry. “You think I don’t know?”

Pansy closed her eyes. “If you know, you have to let me go…” She was crestfallen to hear her voice broken with emotion.

“I love you, you know,” he told her feebly.

Pansy lowered her head as if she were trying to curl herself into a ball in his arms. “But I don’t…”

“I know,” he assured her. He kissed her on her forehead and let her go.

She could feel him worm away from her, she could hear his feet on the floor as he retrieved his clothes, and she could smell him as he walked past the bed. She didn’t look at him as he walked towards the door.

“You know where to find me,” he told her as he walked out of the bedroom. Still Pansy didn’t look at him. Still she kept her eyes closed as she sent another one of the few people who loved her away.

***

“Goyle asked me to marry him!” exclaimed Millie excitedly.

Pansy looked up from the potion that she was carefully pouring in the phials and cocked her eyebrow. “Did he really?” she asked. “Or is it because you made that agreement…”

“What agreement?” asked Millie airily.

Pansy smirked. “That agreement… you know, the one where you would have married each other if at fifty you were both still single.”

Millie waved her hand in front of her. “Oh,  _that_  agreement,” she pretended to sound surprised, “I didn’t even remember it.”

Pansy returned her attention to the bottles. “Sure,” she quipped, “do you have a date in mind already?”

“I want to be a June bride,” squealed Millie happily. “I mean, I remember your wedding, in February, it was too damn cold!” She tapped her fingers on one of the bottles that Pansy was filling and the apothecary had to slap it away. “Do you remember your wedding, Pansy?” asked Millie nonchalantly.

Pansy took a deep breath. “I do,” she replied curtly.

“It sounds like ages ago, doesn’t it?”

If only Pansy were bottling a Fungiface Potion! She would have happily used it on Millie to shut her up, but she was storing a precious brew of Veritaserum, and that was the only potion that Millie didn’t need.

“It does.”

“What would Borgin be right now?” Millie continued. “Like a hundred?”

Pansy shrugged a shoulder. She didn’t care, but maybe yes, fifty years of difference sounded legit between the two of them.

“You know,” Millie piled it on, “everybody says ‘Poor Pansy, she got married to a horrible, disgusting old man…’ but I—”

“Everybody who?”

“—I always say that it was actually luck! Without him you wouldn’t be where you are now, would you?”

“Everybody who?”

Millie shrugged her shoulders. “Everybody,” she replied vaguely, “even Blaise’s mother said that if you hadn’t killed him yourself, she would have done it for you.”

“I didn’t kill him!” protested Pansy weakly.

Millie shrugged her shoulders again. “So, are you going to be my bridesmaid?”

***

Pansy looked at the mirror and shook her head slightly. She had become so old. So old. She was fifty years old and she didn’t even understand how she got there. Her hair was still jet black and shiny, but she had to thank a potion for that, and for the fact that she could hide most of her wrinkles. She had always been minute, so her skin was still quite stretched and her muscles somehow solid even though she had never played Quidditch or gone out for a run.

But her eyes. She couldn’t stand them. She looked like she had lived a hundred years and gone to hell and back. She couldn’t understand how someone would look at her in the eyes without cringing.

Yes, her eyes betrayed her real age. Her eyes which had seen so much and had cried so many times betrayed her. She felt the urge to poke them out of her skull and burn them.

She shook her head and laughed. Maybe next time…

***

“I would like some dried Nettles.”

Pansy smiled gently at the woman. “Dried Nettles, Ma’am,” she answered promptly, “anything else?”

The woman shook her chocolate hair. “No, thank you,” she replied.

Pansy nodded and disappeared at the back of the shop only to reappear a few seconds later with a bundle of dried Nettles in her hands.

“On a second thought,” added the woman, “I think we’ve almost finished the Nightshade Draught. I wouldn’t mind a couple of phials.”

Pansy’s lips stretched in a smile. “Of course.” Dried Nettles didn’t cost much, but her Nightshade Draught was expensive.

She walked into the back again and when she came back she found another client in the shop. “I’ll be with you in a second, Sir,” she called after him as she put the Nettles and the Draught in a paper bag. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you,” replied the woman. “But I was wondering if I could order a Fire Protection Potion for next week,” she sighed, “my husband’s cousin is a Squib and he invited us for something called a barbecue, and apparently fire is involved…”

“No problem,” replied Pansy, taking notes. “Here you go. That makes twelve Galleons.” She looked at the witch. “Unless you want me to include the Fire Protection Potion already.”

The witch didn’t even flinch at the price and nodded in assent at Pansy’s proposal.

“That’s thirteen Galleons, then,” she replied. “The Nettles are complimentary.”

The witch paid and took the paper bag in her hands. She bid Pansy goodbye and a good day before walking out of the shop.

Pansy turned her attention to the other customer. “How may I help you, Sir?” she asked loudly, for he was still far away from the counter – and if Pansy had to be completely honest, she didn’t even know if it was a man or a woman that she was addressing. But calling a woman ‘sir’ was better than calling a man ‘madam’. Men could be so immature sometimes.

When he turned, though, Pansy saw that it was indeed a man.

And when he turned, Pansy’s breath caught in her throat.

The young man standing in front of her had fair blond hair and grey eyes. His complexion was white and he had a handsome face, along with broad shoulders and a small nose. He seemed almost shy and reverential as he stared at Pansy. He looked out of place in her dimly lit apothecary filled with poisons and dark ingredients. He walked towards her and Pansy could see that he was biting his bottom lip.

“Draco,” she breathed out, unable to restrain herself. But she knew the boy who was standing in front of her was not Draco.

He smiled awkwardly. “I’m Scorpius, Ma’am,” he introduced himself, his voice soft and polite as he spoke.

Pansy didn’t move, her wide eyes set on Draco’s son. What did he want?

He shifted on his feet as if he found it uncomfortable to be there. “My mother sent me,” he continued, “it’s about my father.” He looked at Pansy and swallowed. “Can we talk in private? It’s important.”


	13. A Life without Her

***

Draco opened the Daily Prophet and stared. The title was big and he couldn’t have missed it. There even was a moving picture in the middle of the page that showed Mr Burke being brought to Azkaban with a resolute expression on his face. But the article wasn’t about Mr Burke’s imprisonment, which had occurred months before. No, the article was about Mr Burke’s body being found lifeless in his cell in Azkaban, and Draco couldn’t believe it.

Draco had been meaning to talk to the man once his sentence was over. He had wanted to tell him just how grateful he was for what he had done for him, and now… He would never be able to do so. He thought about that last conversation they had – the last and the first, if one didn’t count the quick exchange of embarrassed lines at Pansy’s wedding – and with a groan, he remembered that he had never said goodbye to him. He had just walked out of there in astonishment at the news of the baby, forgetting to thank him and to bid him goodbye. He had promised himself to go and see him in Azkaban, but months had passed and it had never happened.

Now he regretted his indolence. After all, Mr Burke had been imprisoned at his place. He shuddered. If it hadn’t been for him, Draco could have been in Azkaban at that moment. Or worse, it could have been Pansy.

Draco’s heart ached as he thought of Pansy.

He hadn’t heard from her ever since she had sent him the parcel with the letters. And how could he have contacted her now? The thought that Astoria or even his mother would harm her in any way if they resumed their encounters scared him too much to even think about it. Draco shook his head. He didn’t have to ponder the question of whether to see her or not, because she was the one who didn’t want to see him. He was angry and ashamed of the way Astoria had worked behind his back, for eight long years, with the help of his mother, to make Pansy’s life hell. And Draco hadn’t even noticed! He hadn’t even understood that something was wrong.

“I see you’ve read the news.”

Draco’s eyes rose to meet those of his father. He was looking at him from the doorway of Draco’s study. He seemed particularly serious, as if the news of Mr Burke’s death had had some kind of effect on him too.

“Horrible thing,” murmured Lucius.

Draco nodded softly in agreement, before returning his eyes to the Prophet.

Lucius walked in. “I’ve heard you’re sleeping in your old room,” he murmured evenly.

Draco didn’t look up. “I’ve been for months now, Father,” he replied flatly. It didn’t surprise him that his father would take that long to know about a change in his sleeping arrangements.

Draco had decided to go back to his old room the night he had received the letters. He couldn’t bear to be close to Astoria, and he felt he couldn’t share a bed with her anymore. Merlin knows what he would have done to her. And despite the fact that her death would have only brought him joy, nonetheless, she was the mother of his son and the last thing he wanted to do was to hurt Scorpius.

“Are you sure that that’s a wise decision?” asked Lucius all of a sudden.

Draco looked up at him, his grey eyes wide with incomprehension. Why did he care? “The best I’ve ever made,” he replied coldly.

Lucius’ gaze remained glued to his son’s face. “What I’m saying, Draco, is that some nights can be long without company.” He tapped his fingers on his cane as if he was irritated by his son’s stupidity.

“I’ll keep myself company,” he grunted curtly. He would have added,  _Like I have already done_ , but didn’t feel it would be appropriate.

Lucius looked sceptical at his son, but nodded in understanding. Then the conversation shifted on the latest bad investment made by Mr Bolden with their money, and Draco had to make himself focus to pay attention to his words.

***

Draco pushed on the accelerator until the car reeled through the Wiltshire countryside with an infernal roar. He felt elated as the landscape shot before his eyes and the roar of the engine filled his ears. Yes, he had almost forgotten how much he liked those Muggle machineries, how intoxicating the speed was.

He sped up as he neared the Manor, his hands clutching at the wheel to keep the car steady. He half-closed his eyes as the car rushed against the closed gates and came out unscathed on the other side. He slowed down and turned the car, bringing it to an abrupt stop in front of the main entrance of the house.

He got out and looked satisfied at the brand new vehicle. Not a scratch. The charm had worked perfectly well, and Draco felt a singular pride in what he had done. The Aston Martin One-77 purchased the week before had just been improved by a spell invented by Draco himself. He had just made it more powerful, able to pass through solid objects, and semi-indestructible.  _Semi_ , he had to work on that. But he found that he was all right if he didn’t push it at more than 250 mph. Unluckily, that was exactly what he liked to do.

Draco tapped his wand on the body of the car and murmured a cleaning spell. A white light engulfed the Aston Martin, and when it was gone the car shone in the pale September sun. He got back into the car and drove it into one of the garages. He parked right next the Rolls Royce Phantom that he had used to pick up Pansy the last time she had come visiting.

When he got out again, he admired his two treasures. Yes, they were two of the most expensive cars in the world, and he had spent much of the Malfoy capital to buy them, but he liked them and that was what was important.

He turned when he heard some faint steps on the gravel at his back. His mother, in all her fairness, was walking towards him, her emotionless eyes staring straight at him.

Draco turned to give her his back. “How did you know that I was here?” he asked grimly, before she could even open her mouth.

She came to stand next to him and folded her arms. “Aren’t you always feeding your newest obsession on Wednesday?” She took a deep breath. “First it was ancient jewels, and now this.” She gestured languidly at the cars.

“Well,” started Draco coldly, “I’m afraid your son has expensive tastes.” He turned to look at her. “Is that a problem? I thought you always bragged about the endless Malfoy fortune at parties and weddings.”

Narcissa stiffened. Draco knew he had struck a chord. “That was before,” she replied icily. “Your Father worries about the bad investments that Mr Bolden has made with his money, and you go around squandering it on these Muggle devices.”

Somehow, even though Draco knew about the bad investments, he found that he didn’t particularly care. All his life, he had never been anything but fabulously rich, and that had never brought him any happiness at all. On the contrary, it had brought him only pain and misery.

“You should think about Scorpius,” admonished his mother, “if you are not shrewder, he will have nothing left.”

Draco shook his head and stepped back out of the garage. His mother did the same when she noticed that he was closing the shutter. “I am thinking about Scorpius,” replied Draco darkly. “I am always thinking about him.” And with that he walked away towards the Manor, where his son awaited him in his room.

***

Draco woke up with a start. His pyjamas were clinging to his sweaty body and there was something wet between his legs. He swallowed and only then noticed that he was out of breath. He groaned when he peered down to find a mess on his groin. He leaned his head back on the pillow and tried to remember.

What had he dreamt? He remembered children’s toys on the floor, a dimly lit room and a bed. And Pansy. He groaned again as he remembered that part of the dream. She was naked and on her knees in front of him. Her mouth had engulfed him. Her hands touched him. She was smiling her cocky smile. She had withdrew and wetted her lips invitingly. She had made him come.

He stretched his hand to grab his wand and cast a quick Scouring Charm. Now that the dream was over and the excitement of the orgasm that had jerked him awake had passed, he could only feel emptiness and bitterness. Three years since he had last seen Pansy, and still he clung to her memory like a shipwrecked sailor clung to a raft. He kept seeing her everywhere. In his dreams, in every girl he met, in his head, and every time, after a few exciting seconds, he was left emptier at the realisation that she was not there. That it was not her who he was looking at.

Draco rolled on the bed until he was facing the tall window. Probably, it had been a mistake to move back to his old room. Too many memories, and Draco couldn’t find one where Pansy was not present, as if he had spent every single moment of his life in there with her.

He hadn’t, but Merlin how he wished he had.

***

“Daddy.”

Draco looked up from his papers to stare at his soon. Five-year-old Scorpius was looking at him from the doorway of his study, his grey eyes huge on his fair skinned face. His blond hair had been combed expertly by Astoria’s hands, and his navy blue outfit was immaculate.

Draco smiled and put down the feather he was holding. Business could wait. “Come Scorpius,” he murmured, cocking his head.

The boy’s face cracked into a smile as he ran to his father and raised his arms to signal the desire to sit in his lap. Draco complied, placing his hands on his sides, he sat him on his thigh while the boy beamed.

“Daddy,” he continued, looking at the papers on the desk, “can you come out and play?”

Draco smiled affectionately. Lucius reproached him daily for letting Scorpius call him ‘daddy’.  _A Malfoy has to know how to respect his own father from the moment he is born_. Draco didn’t care. He liked the sound of that word, and remembered how he had been forbidden to say it when he was younger.

“Isn’t it too cold to play outside, Scorpius?” he asked gently. “We don’t want to get sick, do we?”

Scorpius pouted for a few seconds before smiling again. “Can we play in the drawing room?”

Draco looked at him seriously. “And what would you like to play with?”

“Brooms!” he squealed happily.

Draco cocked an eyebrow. “You know you are not allowed to fly in the house,” he reminded him. Nor was he outside the house, at least not without him sitting behind.

“No, no,” he replied excitedly, “the little brooms, not the big ones.”

Draco smiled amusedly. “Oh, the little ones,” he chuckled, nodding, “the ones with the little Quidditch players?”

He nodded, his eyes shining. “Yes, Daddy!” he exclaimed, “I want to play with Viktor, Basil, Roderick, Ginny…” He counted them on his fingers, proudly showing his father how well he remembered the names of the players.

Draco managed to stifle a grunt of disapproval as he noticed that Scorpius still showed interest in Ginny Potter’s figurine. He couldn’t completely blame him for that though. The figurine had long, flaming hair that fluttered about when it flew in the air, and it was so beautiful and enticing that Draco had found himself trying to reach out to touch it too once. Stupid figurine.

“Can we go playing, daddy?” asked Scorpius, patting his father’s cheek to claim his attention.

“You should let your father work, Scorpius,” Lucius spoke from the doorframe. “He is a busy man.”

Scorpius’ little hand stopped on Draco’s cheek as he saw his grandfather. He seemed to stiffen in Draco’s lap as the older man looked at him with cold, grey eyes.

“I can work later,” replied Draco icily, hugging Scorpius in a reassuring gesture.

Lucius smiled softly. “I can play with you, Scorpius,” he offered in a calculated voice. “What would you like to do?”

“That’s not necessary, Father,” replied Draco, glaring at Lucius.

Lucius stretched a hand towards Scorpius. “Come,” he instructed, and even though his voice was gentle, to Draco it seemed more like an order rather than an invitation.

Scorpius shifted uncomfortably on his father’s thigh before sliding off and taking some tentative steps towards his grandfather. Draco looked at him, rage boiling inside as his son took Lucius’ hand and turned to look at him with disappointed eyes. Draco felt the urge to stand up and claim his son back from his own father, but that was not what he did.

“Daddy,” called Scorpius, stretching his own hand towards Draco to beckon him to come with them.

Lucius squeezed the tiny hand with his long fingers. “Scorpius,” he growled, “call him  _Father_.”

Scorpius looked up at Lucius with pleading grey eyes, but when he shifted his gaze back on Draco, he murmured, “Father.”

Draco flared his nostrils in anger at the sound of that word drawn from his son’s lips. “Go, Scorpius,” he told him, lowering his eyes on the papers again. “Go with your grandfather.”

He could hear their steps as they walked away, one firm and heavy, the other soft and uncertain. He didn’t look up when the door closed at their backs, leaving Draco alone in his study. He could have gone with them, he could have told his father to step back, but that was not the Malfoy way. He was still a boy in his father’s eyes, despite his thirty years, Lucius was the Lord of the Manor, and Draco just had to wait for him to die to take his place.

He focused back on the papers he was studying and decided that they made no sense. According to them, they had to sell one of their estates up north if they wanted to have enough money to refill their vault at Gringotts. Draco pushed them away and shook his head. Closing his eyes, he let himself think about Pansy.

***

Draco’s newest car was a Saleen S7. It was silver with green interior, it had a customised steering wheel and a speed spell cast upon it. Draco had bought it with part of the money that he had got from selling the estate they owned in Scotland. His father hadn’t said anything, his mother had silently fumed, but Astoria had hissed how inconsiderate he had been. Scorpius had grinned for the whole time that his father took him on a tour of Wiltshire, screaming in happiness when he saw Muggles staring back at them with their mouths open.

Draco had lost interest in it in less than a week, though. He had parked the car in the garage next to the other two with the intention of never taking them out again. That same day, he ordered a Portkey and travelled to Venice for the weekend.

He stayed in his hotel room all day and night long, staring at the walls, sleeping, drinking Italian wine. He got drunk easily, for he was not used to the alcohol anymore. He slept until he was woken up by a cleaning lady the day of his check-out. He barked at her and she hurried out, banging the door at her back. Two hours later he walked into the reception, paid and used another Portkey to go back home.

***

“We need to talk.”

Draco looked at Astoria with cold eyes. “Do we really?” he asked icily.

She sat gracefully on the couch. Suddenly, the temperature in the drawing room seemed colder than before to Draco. But since it was July, it was surely just his imagination.

“My sister is coming to visit,” she continued, “and there are certain matters that we need to address before she arrives.”

Draco folded the Daily Prophet that he had been reading and took a deep breath. “I’m not going to sleep in your room for the sake of pretence,” he let her know with a smirk.

To his surprise, she smirked back. “As if I could care less,” she replied icily. “No, this is far more important. It concerns your progeny and mine.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed as he studied her. She was the usual cold and composed Astoria, with the usual rigid posture. She was thirty and still she looked like she had never aged, as if she had been already old when she had arrived at the Manor the first time. “Talk,” he growled, unhappy with the turn the conversation had taken.

She smiled cruelly. “As you know, my sister has three children,” she explained, “two boys and a girl.”

Draco cocked an eyebrow at the unnecessary information. “Well, aren’t they my nephews and niece?” he hissed.

“Oh, so you do remember them,” she mocked. “Very well indeed, Draco.”

Draco’s fingers clutched around the armrests of the armchair. “Get to the point, will you, Astoria?” he hissed. “I have important things to do.”

She raised her eyebrows as if she didn’t believe a word he was saying. “The little girl is two years younger than Scorpius,” she continued, “and she has the purest blood you could find in today’s Magical Great Britain.”

Draco gritted his teeth. “Don’t you dare suggesting that we should marry Scorpius to his cousin,” he hissed, “I don’t want to hear anything like that, Astoria.”

Astoria glared at him. “You were born in this family,” she hissed back, “and yet you couldn’t care less of its fate.” She took a deep breath. “While I… I’ve worked for the good of it ever since I married into this.”

Draco shook his head. “Oh, Astoria, don’t even start with the tale of what you did for this family,” he growled, “because I don’t know how I could react to the memory of your actions.”

“Draco,” she breathed with a smirk, “five years passed and you are still in love with her.” She pursued her lips in a haughty gesture. “Isn’t that pathetic?”

“I remember a time when you wanted me to love  _you_ ,” he replied flatly.

She smiled cruelly at him. “I was young and stupid,” she told him.

“I’m glad you’re aware of that.” He stood up and turned, giving her his back as he walked towards the door.

“We still haven’t finished,” Astoria hissed, her voice tense with irritation.

Draco stopped in his tracks. “I’m afraid we have,” he replied quietly, “and I don’t want you to spend your time arranging Scorpius’ marriage to anybody at all.”

Draco heard Astoria standing up. “He can’t do whatever he wants,” she reminded him coldly, “that is not who we are.”

He stopped to consider her words. “No, it’s who we are going to be,” he replied as he walked out.

***

Draco couldn’t stand Daphne.

He didn’t know if it was her resemblance to her sister, or the bond the two women shared or the fact that she loved his wife so much. He just couldn’t even look at her without feeling disgusted and irritated. She came to the Manor once a year around the holidays, just to spend time with Astoria and speak ill of Draco. She left her three children unattended around the house and once Draco had to save them from a charmed guillotine that was about to cut off the head of his niece. They were three vicious little devils, and he didn’t like Scorpius to meddle with them. He couldn’t avoid it, though, because Astoria was the first to encourage their relationship.

Narcissa and Lucius seemed unfazed by the fact that a family of five would come to their house and stay for days without showing any interest to leave. Draco understood that all his parents wanted was for his little niece to get closer to Scorpius, just like Astoria had told him. He shuddered at the very thought and tried to keep his son as far from his cousins as possible without succeeding much. But his older nephew was five years older than Scorpius, and held some kind of power over his son. He told him of Hogwarts and the magic that they did in class and Scorpius listened to his words like in a trance.

The little girl too, she was a little devil. Just like her mother and her aunt. She had the fiery eyes of the Greengrass women and her hair looked like that of a doll. She was a pretty little thing and she knew it perfectly well. Everybody seemed to fall instantaneously under a spell in her presence. Except for Draco. He hated her with a passion, and even though he tried to be nice to her, he felt as if she knew that deep down he didn’t like her. To Draco’s horror, Lucius seemed to be the one person that loved the company of the girl the most. He yielded to each and every one of her requests, being them sweets from the highest shelf of the dining room or a miniature broom to fly around the house and the gardens.

Scorpius too, seemed to be enthralled by the little beauty with the brain of a fox, and she seemed to have eyes only for him when Lucius was not around. Did she think she would have married him? Did Daphne and Astoria instruct her already? He could imagine the two women being excellent teachers in the arts of seduction and deception.

Daphne’s husband was the only one that Draco didn’t particularly dislike in that family. He spent most of his time reading or playing Wizarding Chess with one of his children, he rarely spoke and seemed to have eyes only for Daphne and his daughter. Draco wondered if Astoria were jealous of that man, so perfectly trained by her sister. Would she have wanted someone like him next her instead of Draco?

He didn’t care, because he would have wanted someone else too.

***

“Dinner was delicious as always, Narcissa,” chirped Daphne with a flashy smile. “You have to give me the recipe of that stew.”

“You have to ask the house-elves,” replied Draco, bringing a glass of red wine to his lips.

Daphne looked at him amused. “Of course, and I shall give it to  _my_  house-elves,” she replied gleefully, “those stupid creatures can’t even cook a stew by the book.”

“Have you trained them properly, Daphne?” asked Lucius with a smirk.

Daphne flushed slightly. “We got them from Mother,” she let him know, “we thought they were trained. Maybe we have been too indulgent with them though.”

“When I have my house,” piped in the little girl, “I am going to have the best house-elves ever.” She gave a smile that was both innocent and cruel, like only a child could do. “I’m going to whip them until they understand what they have to do.”

Daphne beamed at her. “Of course you are,” she smiled gently.

Draco glared at the girl.  _So small and she already knows so many words_ , he thought bitterly.

“Your husband will have to whip them,” her older brother smirked, “and you will tell him what to do.”

Draco wondered since when the children were allowed at the adult table. He couldn’t remember himself sitting with his parents when they had guests until he had started Hogwarts. Of course, that would mean that his son and the little girl would have to eat together on a smaller table, alone, and he didn’t want that, but he could have done without all those annoying children around.

The girl turned her sparkly eyes to Scorpius. “Will you do that for me, Scorpius?” she asked, her voice high and sugary. “When we are married.”

“I don’t like this kind of conversation,” Draco thundered a bit more harshly than he had intended.

The little girl, obviously not used to be reproached, looked at her uncle with wide eyes. But when her mother touched her shoulder in a comforting gesture she seemed to find the courage to talk again. “But we are to get married,” she insisted haughtily in her clear voice, “Mother told me so.”

Daphne smiled at her. “Of course you are…”

“I don’t think so,” Draco interrupted icily, “and I don’t want to hear about this anymore.” He looked at Scorpius. He had his eyes on his plate, his cheeks slightly flushed for being the centre of attention.

“I’m afraid you are going to hear it over and over again,” quipped Astoria coldly, “because our dear Scorpius will indeed marry his delightful little cousin.”

Scorpius glanced at his mother and lowered his eyes again.

“Astoria,” growled Draco dangerously.

“Oh, I’m sorry Draco,” chirped Daphne, “not everybody cares about love as much as you do.”

Draco stood from his chair, his hands at the sides of his empty plate. These women were driving him insane and if they wanted war, war they would indeed have. He looked at Daphne as if all he needed was another word from her before he used an Unforgivable Curse on his sister-in-law. How much he wanted her to shut her mouth and lower her eyes. “You don’t—”

“Why don’t we go through?” asked Narcissa unexpectedly, her voice firm but nervous. “We will have tea in the drawing room.”

Draco glared at her, but was somehow relieved when everybody, even the children, stood up and followed Narcissa into the drawing room. He looked at them as they lined quietly and followed the woman through the door. He pushed his chair back to follow them.

“Sit down, Draco.” Lucius was still sat at his chair. Draco hadn’t even noticed him as he stared at the little crowd of people who gave him their backs and walked into the other room.

His father was leaning against the back of the chair as if he was full from the delicious supper they just had. He looked calm and composed as every Malfoy should look. He gestured for Draco to sit back at his place when he didn’t move.

“Aren’t we going through?” asked Draco, sitting soundlessly on his chair. “Shouldn’t we be good hosts?”

“I’m sure Astoria and your mother can cope with our guests,” he told him as he poured himself some more wine and brought the glass to his lips.

“And is there a reason why we are staying behind?” asked Draco, leaning his back to the back of the chair as well, as if unconsciously imitating his father.

Lucius looked at the wine before putting the glass on the table and bringing his gaze back to Draco. “They say that time heals all wounds, Draco,” he murmured calmly, cocking his head, “is it not working for you?”

Draco stiffened. “I beg your pardon, Father?” he asked coldly.

“Do you still think about her?” he questioned flatly. “Do you still long to see her?”

Draco swallowed only to find his mouth dry. “I don’t even know what you are talking about.”

“Why, I think you do,” he replied calmly. “She is a hard one to get out of your head. Believe me, I know.” He smiled almost affectionately. “I sometimes think about her too.”

Draco gritted his teeth. He felt a rush of jealousy at his father’s words. How could he? Think about Pansy? Nobody but himself was to think about her. “I don’t understand how this conversation is relevant to what we were saying at dinner, Father.”

Lucius looked at him intently. “You would like a different future for Scorpius,” he told him, “different from the one you know he will have to face at some point.”

Draco nodded curtly. “I want him to be free to choose,” he replied softly.

“Something that you were not allowed to do.”

Draco didn’t reply, but he silently agreed.

Lucius nodded. “Contrary to what you might think, Draco,” he continued softly, “I don’t like to see you suffer.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “And I will do what I can to alleviate your pain.”

For a moment Draco worried that his father would use a Memory Charm to erase all memories of Pansy from his head. He brought his hand to the wand in his pocket and clenched his jaw, ready to scream a counter-spell in case he would have wanted to hit him. Instead, Lucius poured himself some more wine and slowly drank another glass.

He looked back at Draco when he had downed the crimson liquid. “I’m going out tonight,” he let him know.

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Have a good evening, then.”

“You are coming with me.” It was not a question.

Draco raised his chin. His father went out often. His destination was always a mystery, his motivation was not. “I don’t think I would enjoy myself,” he grunted firmly.

“I didn’t ask you,” replied Lucius. “We are Apparating to Knockturn Alley at ten, bring something warm and don’t take money with you.”

Draco frowned slightly. “Knockturn Alley?” he asked uncomfortably.

“Oh don’t worry,” quipped Lucius amused, “I hardly think our dear Pansy would be anywhere near the place where we are going.”

“And where is it that we are going?” he asked coldly.

Lucius smirked as he stood up. “The Quiet Witch Inn,” he replied, “but I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it, have you, Draco?”

***

Draco didn’t like side-along Apparition. He didn’t like the idea of not knowing where he would have ended. Nonetheless, he grabbed his father’s wrist and closed his eyes as he felt himself being pulled with him. He felt his stomach churning, but before he could even start to feel sick, his feet were once again on solid ground.

He let go of Lucius and looked around himself. They were standing in Knockturn Alley, but Draco knew that only because his father had told him earlier that evening, for that was a part of the street that he had never seen. It looked almost grimmer than where Borgin and Burkes was, and for a moment Draco fretted about Pansy and the fact that she had to live near such a slum.

“Come,” ordered Lucius, starting to walk in the darkness of the alley. He was incredibly silent for a man wearing iron heels, his cloak fluttered about in the dark like the wings of a bat.

Draco followed him on the uneven cobbles. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had agreed to go with him. Lucius had told him that he wanted to give him some relief from his pain, but Draco didn’t want any. He liked the pain, he liked to think of Pansy and let her ride him in his dreams. Those were the only happy moments he had in his life when Scorpius was not around.

Still, Lucius had not asked him, he had ordered him. And even though Draco hated to be ordered about by his father, he couldn’t refuse him. He had never done it before and would never do it, and his devotion to him almost made him sick, as if yet again he had no freedom.

They walked past a candle-maker with hundreds of candles in the window, then there was a pet shop and a jeweller. They all seemed to sell illegal or dark artefacts, and Draco watched in wonder as a little dragon coughed some fire towards the window of the pet shop.

“Don’t linger, Draco,” instructed Lucius, without even turning.

They walked until Draco felt that sooner or later they would have come to the end of the street, the houses and shacks becoming sparer by the second, until they reached a massive Tudor-style building whose sign read ‘The Quiet Witch’.

Lucius came to a halt in front of the door. He brought a hand to his long hair to comb some knots out and pushed the door open.

The Quiet Witch was an inn that looked bigger from the outside than from the inside. It had few tables, most of which were empty or with only one occupant. The wizards – Draco couldn’t see any witches at all – who were sitting there were either half-drunk or completely drunk. Some of them were sleeping with their greasy heads on the tables, some others were clumsily drinking from their mugs, and others yet were ordering drinks.

The stench of alcohol and piss was strong, and it filled Draco’s nostrils and stung his eyes. He looked at his father and was quite surprised to see him impassive, as if the place and the smell left him untouched. He walked towards a table in a corner and Draco had to trail behind him like a child. He felt out of place and slightly disturbed, but put on his hardest face and looked around himself with the typical, disdainful Malfoy’s glare.

“What would you like to drink?” asked Lucius as he sat on a bench.

Draco imagined the dirty hands of a landlord touching the filthy glasses that he would have to drink from. “Nothing,” he replied, sitting next to his father.

Lucius raised his eyes on a short and fat man who came to collect their order. “Two Firewhiskeys and Mr Dunn,” he ordered in a low growl.

The man nodded in understanding and walked away.

“I’m afraid you will have to drink something,” drawled Lucius as their Firewhiskeys magically appeared in front of them.

“I don’t have money, remember?”

Lucius downed his glass. “Don’t worry about the money,” he assured him, “for tonight.”

Draco furrowed his brow, but drank his Firewhiskey in one gulp from the dirty glass. He felt the sting of the alcohol in his throat and he didn’t like it. He felt it run down to his stomach and burn his insides.

“Mr Malfoy.”

Draco raised his eyes on the man standing in front of him. He had sandy hair and a face covered in freckles, ice blue eyes and a gaunt appearance. He conjured a chair and sat down opposite to Lucius and Draco.

“Mr Dunn,” Lucius greeted him back.

Mr Dunn looked at Draco and cocked his head. “Is this your son?” he asked with a heavy Irish accent.

“He is.”

Mr Dunn nodded. “We weren’t expecting you till next week,” he let Lucius know as he opened a book and checked a list.

“Things have happened,” replied Lucius, “I needed to come.”

Draco looked at his father without understanding. Things have happened? He thought he was there for Draco, not for himself. There… He swallowed. There in a  _whorehouse_.

Mr Dunn nodded again. “The usual?” he asked as he scribbled in his book.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if she is free tonight,” he replied flatly.

Lucius’ eyes narrowed with impatience. “If she is not, you know my preferences,” he growled.

Mr Dunn’s lips curved in a soft smirk. “Of course,” he replied, “very young, not a virgin, a screamer…”

Draco clenched his jaw and imagined being somewhere else and not there listening to his father’s preferences about women. He glanced furtively at him and was disturbed to find him absolutely calm and focused on what the other man was saying.

The man tore a piece of paper from the book and wrote the number twelve on it. Then he threw it in the air and Draco followed it with his eyes as it disappeared behind the counter and under a door. It came back only a few seconds after and landed on the table in front of Mr Dunn.

“You are in luck, Mr Malfoy,” he let him know placidly.

Draco could hear his father take a deep breath as he fought to keep his face void of all emotion.

“Same room?” Lucius asked, smoothing his cloak.

“Your room,” replied Mr Dunn reverentially.

Lucius slid on the bench and stood up.

“And what shall we do with young Mr Malfoy?” asked Mr Dunn to either Draco or Lucius.

“He will tell you,” replied Lucius, then his eyes shifted on Draco. “You know the trick, Draco, don’t you?” he asked calmly. “Don’t ask for someone who looks like her.” And with that, he walked away towards a door that opened to a steep flight of stairs and closed it at his back.

The man in front of Draco cleared his throat. “Are your preferences any similar to your father’s, Mr Malfoy?” he asked calmly.

Draco looked at him and frowned.  _Very young, not a virgin, a screamer_ … No, his preference was Pansy. He wanted to get out of there and walk to the other side of the street, where she was now probably sleeping. He wanted to knock on her door, tear it down in case she didn’t reply. He wanted to lie down with her. He didn’t even have to touch her if she didn’t want him to. He could have just stared at her for the whole night, until she woke up.

“Mr Malfoy?” asked the man, slight impatience in his voice.

Draco blinked and looked at him. “No,” he replied dryly, “I don’t want a brunette, not too small, not too fair skinned.”

Mr Dunn took notes. “Young?” he asked.

Draco turned up his nose. “Not too young,” he replied curtly. What did his father mean with  _very_  young? How young was that? “Not a virgin,” he continued, “and not a screamer.”

Mr Dunn looked at him. “Anything else?” he asked as he tore a paper from his notebook again.

Draco shook his head. “Surprise me,” he replied bitterly.

The man smirked. “Cheer up, Mr Malfoy,” he chuckled, scribbling the number five on the paper, before sending it flying through the room. “I can assure you that our girls are all pretty and healthy.” He grabbed the paper as it came back. “The only problem you might encounter is falling in love with one of them.” He looked at the paper. “Room 434. Up the stairs to your left.”

***

Draco pushed the door open and stepped into the room. It was dark, the only light coming from some candles that fluctuated near the big queen size bed. The room was bare. There was an armchair in a corner, a four-poster bed and a mirror with a table and a chair on the other side of the room.

Draco walked in and closed the door at his back. The room smelled nice, he noticed that. It looked clean and apparently the sheets seemed fresh. He smirked. Naturally, if his father had gone there for years, it had to be a good place. He wondered how much was a night with one of the girls, and why was his father paying for him.  _Just for that night_ , he had said.

The door at Draco’s back opened and he turned to look at the person who walked in. His mouth went dry even before he could see the girl. Somehow the realisation of what he was about to do hit him all of a sudden in one moment, and he found himself not ready to do it.

“Oh my,” murmured a high pitched voice, “a young and handsome one.”

Draco finally looked at her. She didn’t look anything like Pansy. She had long, dirty-blonde hair, a tanned complexion with some freckles on her nose and generous curves. She was wrapped in a white dress with a golden belt tight around her stomach. She was barefoot, without jewels but with some make-up on. Her lips were full and her green eyes studied Draco with an amused stare.

“Draco, isn’t it?” she asked, stepping towards him and stretching a hand to touch him.

He caught her wrist. “Don’t say my name,” he growled, “and don’t touch me.”

She purred and didn’t do anything to wiggle free of his clutch. “It’s going to be a bit tricky if I can’t touch you, isn’t it?” she quipped.

He let her go and she walked towards the bed, sitting down gracefully, her dress fluttering about her. “I need to know what you like,” she continued, almost in a business-like way, “at least at the beginning, then we can improvise.”

Draco looked at her with disdain. “Get naked,” he replied coldly, “get on the bed and shut up.”

She stood up, slightly taken aback by his tone. She undid her belt and let it fall on the floor, then grabbed the hem of the dress and looked at Draco in the eye. “You can’t hurt me, you know,” she let him know in a slightly unsecure voice as she slipped the dress off her body only to reveal that she was naked under it.

Draco was glad to see that she wasn’t anything like Pansy. Her full breasts and her fleshy hips seemed made to be touched, night after night, by man after man. Her round face was that of a girl of no more than twenty-four, and that was the only thing that reminded him of her. Draco shook his head, Pansy was no longer twenty-four. She was thirty-two now, just like him.

She lay down on the bed. One arm folded under her head, the other ghosted on her stomach, right above the patch of blond curls between her legs. She didn’t say anything, but smiled seductively at him.

Draco stood there and looked at her for what seemed ages. He couldn’t bring himself to like her, she looked like a doll, a doll with just one purpose in life. He had to focus on her curves, on the swell of her breasts and on her quivering tummy, on her tanned thighs and on her soft flesh. On her inviting sex that seemed to be waiting for him between her legs.

He felt his member stir in his pants. It was nothing like what he used to feel with Pansy. With Pansy he was hard even before she was naked, even before she touched him, even before she Apparated in the flat.

“Do you need help?” asked the girl cheekily. She eyed his groin where his erection was not showing yet.

Draco flushed slightly as he shook his head and started to undress. He didn’t need a prostitute to laugh at him because he couldn’t get hard. He had to focus. Merlin! He was about to get laid. How could he not get excited at that very thought? He shed all of his clothes and folded them on a chair – he didn’t trust the cleanliness of the floor – and came to stand at the foot of the bed.

The girl looked appreciatively at him, and for a moment Draco felt like he was the one selling his body and not the girl. As if he was doing it just to please his father. To agree to try to forget her.

She sat up and knelt on the bed. She crawled to him and stretched a hand to touch his member. Again, he caught her wrist.

She looked up at him with a smirk. “It’s going to feel good,” she murmured softly, “have you never been touched by a girl down there?”

Draco pushed her back and she fell with her bottom on her heels. “I’m married,” he snarled with contempt.

The girl’s smirk became wider. “Oh,” she whispered, “and you feel guilty because you are here?”

Draco snorted. “Hardly,” he hissed. “But I don’t think you are paid to talk. I think you are paid to fuck.”

She cocked her head. “Yes, but I can’t fuck you until you are hard.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “Get on all fours,” he ordered her, “turn around.” For a moment, a brief, liberating moment, he cursed Pansy for having made him the man who was standing there with a beautiful woman ready to be taken and him unable to find the thing exciting. He shook his head forcefully. It wasn’t her fault. It was his.

The girl looked at him with flickering eyes and did as she had been ordered, turning around and offering him her round and soft bottom. He brought his hand to his member and could feel it fill as he stroked himself and stared at her. Yes, she was pretty, young, and she was his for an hour. He could have taken her as many times as he wanted and in as many positions as he liked. She would have done anything he wanted and he would have wanted so many things, she would have begged him in the end.

He finally felt his member finishing filling under his fingers and let out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He knelt on the bed behind the girl and saw her lower her shoulders and raise her buttocks to give him access between her legs.

He was unceremonious as he grabbed her hips and guided his erection towards her folds, until its head was resting on her clit. She let out a moan of anticipation and turned her head to look over her shoulder, one of her hands going to her buttock to spread her cheek for him.

He withdrew and she didn’t move. He brought his hand down between her legs and pushed a finger into her. She let out another moan of pleasure and then a whimper at the loss when he exited her. She was already slick and ready. He brought his coated finger to her mouth and she sucked and licked on it as if she liked her own taste. She grabbed his hand and licked his other fingers too, until Draco freed himself from her digits and grasped her hip again.

He aligned his erection to her folds and raised her eyes on her. “Turn,” he ordered coldly, “I don’t want to look at your face.”

She didn’t seem upset at his preferences, but she let out a small cry of surprise when he pushed her hand away from her buttock.

He pushed into her in one quick thrust. She wasn’t tight, she was warm and wet though. He pushed into her until he was buried balls-deep between her folds. He could see her hands grasping the sheets under her as he pushed in and pulled her towards him.

He let out a groan of pleasure at the sensation and stood still for a long time, delighting in being buried into a woman again, after so long. He had forgotten how good that was. How natural that was.

She let out a tight-lipped moan and pushed back against him. “Hmm… Draco…”

His hand was quick as it landed on her buttock, quick and steady and harsh, to let her know that he was not spanking her for his pleasure, he was warning her. “Don’t call my name,” he growled, “don’t say anything.”

She didn’t reply, but kept her head low, and tensed her muscles slightly under his touch. Draco slid out of her completely, only to slip in again immediately. He picked up a pace without waiting for her to get used to him. He didn’t care for her and he imagined she didn’t need time to get used to something between her legs. That was her job after all. He thrust into her with viciousness, until he could feel her knees shifting on the mattress and she had to lean her head against the pillow. He grabbed her hips until he found her bones under her flesh and tightened his grasp around them, enticing a whimper and a small jolt of the muscles of her legs.

It took him only a few thrusts to feel his balls tightening and to still as his orgasm made him spurt his seed inside the girl. He could hardly control his movements as he jerked his hips and emptied himself into her, whispering Pansy’s name as he did.

It was only when he came down from the wave of his orgasm that he pulled out of her and bit his bottom lip.

“You…” he panted, “you are on a contraceptive.”

The girl’s buttery body was shaken by a fit of giggle. “Of course,” she replied, turning her head to look at him, “unless you don’t want me to.”

Draco glared at her. “Of course I do,” he hissed.

She giggled again and turned quickly towards him. Her plump hands went around his member and she engulfed it with her warm mouth.

Draco sucked in his breath as she sucked him. He wanted to tell her no, that he didn’t want to see her face as she made him feel so good, but he couldn’t. The feeling was just too intense and soon he was hard again, and she was smiling around him as she noticed.

He brought his hands to her hair and pushed her back. She released him with a pop and looked up at him with her lips shiny with saliva and the bodily fluids from their mating. She grabbed his erection and moved it away from his lower abdomen before kissing and licking him there. She trailed a wet sequence of kisses up to his navel and licked at it until Draco let out another groan. She tried to continue up to his chest, but he pushed her away.

“Turn,” he told her in a low hiss.

She pouted jokingly. “You don’t want to see my face?” she asked in a childish voice. “Am I not pretty?”

“Just turn,” he barked. He looked at her as she turned again, giving him her back once more as she stood on her hands and knees.

He put his hands on her buttocks and spread them roughly, he didn’t want to be gentle, he didn’t care if she hurt. He placed his erection against her rear hole and pushed slowly but firmly in her ring of muscles. He heard her grunt something at the back of her throat, but she didn’t complain, probably used to being used as the clients liked. He pushed into her until he was sheathed to the hilt and stopped, getting slowly used to this tight confinement.

He started to inch out and then back in, slower than before when he had thrust into her folds, but with equal force. She hummed and he felt the muscles of her legs quiver under his force. Draco pushed against his toes and leaned forward until most of his weight was forced upon her.

She tried to lean on her elbows and knees, but he was too strong, too heavy for her and she collapsed on the bed, bringing him with her. She let out a cry of surprise and pain when he fell on top of her, her arms trapped between the mattress and her body.

“Shut up,” he growled, bringing a hand to cover her mouth.

She nodded, her eyes wide with something that Draco was delighted to recognise as fear. She had laughed at him at the beginning and now he was showing her who he really was and what he was capable of. He continued plunging into her, his stomach slapping against the luscious curve of her bum. He brought his free hand to her hip and pulled her towards him every time he pushed into her.

She was whimpering behind his hand and he looked at her eyes as they shone with tears. Somehow he found them mesmerising, she was on the verge of crying and he was the one causing this reaction. He shoved again and again, increasing his pace with every thrust, until he couldn’t take it anymore and he came with a growl, biting down on her shoulder and licking her salty skin.

He stilled then and waited for his breath to go back to normal. She was still whimpering under him, her smooth, sweaty back trembling under Draco’s chest. He was satisfied then, satisfied to have treated her like that. He wasn’t even sure that she had come, and that thought made him feel good. She didn’t deserve to orgasm, that was her job, she was not there to have fun.

As he thought all those things, Draco came to the realisation that he hated that girl. He hated her with a passion. She was just a body to use for him. She was not worthy of any feeling that came from him.

He let the hand on her mouth slide away and she swallowed, her faint lipstick was smudged around her lips as was her make-up around her eyes, and it made her look like a sad clown. He pushed on his hands and exited her stiffly.

She barely moved as he did, her arms unfolding from under her body as he released her of his weight. He sat at the foot of the bed and placed his feet on the cold floor.

Suddenly, Draco felt empty and cold. The excitement and the euphoria that he had just felt was already a fading memory. He closed his eyes and Pansy’s face flashed behind his eyelids. He opened them again and covered his face with his hands. He wanted to laugh at his father, laugh at his idea that a night with a prostitute would make him forget about her. That would alleviate his pain. No, if anything Draco felt worse.

And still, if he thought of the soft body on that bed, he just wanted to push into her again and again until she cried and whimpered and tears streamed down her face. Until he had given vent to all his rage and his pain and his frustration.

“Are you okay?” asked the girl behind him.

Draco’s shoulder muscles tensed. “I told you to shut up,” he hissed.

She did. She stayed completely still as Draco stood up and got dressed, and he didn’t even glance at her as he walked out of the room, closing the door at his back with a thud.

He leaned against the wall there, the fact that he didn’t even know the name of the girl made him feel better. She was meaningless and what they had done was an act void of all emotion.

Next time he would have asked for a different girl.

***

Scorpius was ten when Draco bought another car. He told him he could have it when he was old enough to drive it. It was a Ferrari and they had to magically enlarge the garage to make it fit next to the others.

They had to sell the second property they owned up north for Draco to be able to afford it, but as he looked at it and touched the smooth wheel and the shiny dashboard, he knew that it was worth it.

He had taken Scorpius on a ride the day of his birthday and the little boy had looked around him mesmerised, beaming at his father as he bought cars that were always faster than the previous one. He squealed happily and clapped his hands every time they sped through a city centre.

Astoria hadn’t even commented on his newest purchase. She had just looked at Draco with eyes filled with resentment for the way he spent their money. She had given him the silent treatment for days, making Draco long for a new car the next week, when she started talking to him again.

Lucius had told him that that was the last car, but Draco had laughed at his words, leaving his father fuming in his study. His mother had hissed a few icy words at him but Draco hadn’t listened to her. All he cared about was that Scorpius was happy. If he were, he was too.

And Draco was also happy because he felt less empty as he filled his life with beautiful things. He managed to leave the side of his new car only when he felt the urge to Apparate to the Quiet Witch to fuck another nameless witch.

***

“I thought we had to be more shrewd with our expenses, Astoria,” hissed Draco coldly as he sipped a glass of wine in front of the fireplace of the drawing room.

Astoria didn’t look at him as she spoke, “We are not as penniless as I want you to believe, Draco.” She tossed her long curls behind her shoulders. “There is still part of my dowry that I have managed to save from your follies, and with the death of my parents we will soon be able to inherit half of their fortunes.” She looked at Draco, her eyes seemed made of brown ice. “Which you will not use the same way you used your own.”

Draco smiled cruelly. “Aren’t you my  _dear_  wife?” he asked her mockingly. “Aren’t I yours by the law?”

Astoria glared at those words. She had used them to try to stop him from seeing Pansy ten years before, and he still remembered them as if they had been spoken that morning.

“Still,” he continued, “I don’t think we should throw a party.”

“Oh, Draco,” she quipped, “don’t you want your son to have a proper birthday party before he leaves for Hogwarts?” She smiled and looked at the fire. “I remember my eleventh birthday. Presents and money and compliments.”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “I reckon Scorpius would rather wait to be at Hogwarts and be able to invite whoever he likes, instead of having to celebrate his birthday with his parents’ and grandparents’ friends and being sent to bed before the party has even started.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand,” replied Astoria dismissively, “and next year he can invite whoever he likes.” She looked at him with a piercing stare. “Unless his father spends all his money first.”

Draco didn’t reply. He sipped some more wine and looked away from her.

“Daphne will come with her children,” she added airily.

Draco clenched his jaw. “I don’t want her little girl anywhere near Scorpius,” he hissed.

Astoria smiled amusedly. “But Draco,” she exclaimed contemptuously, “aren’t you the protector of love and freedom? I’m sure Scorpius loves his cousin very much.”

Draco darkened. “He will wait until he is twenty-five, and if he loves her then he can marry her.”

Astoria cocked her head. “I was barely of age when we got married,” she reminded him.

Draco finally looked back at her. “And our marriage worked so well,” he muttered scornfully.

She smiled cruelly. “Didn’t you fall in love with Pansy when you were eleven?” she asked icily. “But I guess that didn’t work very well either.”

He darkened even more and sunk into the armchair. He could almost feel the self-satisfaction coming from Astoria’s body as she walked away.

***

Draco glanced at his reflection and decided that he looked fine. They hadn’t hosted a party in way too long, and he had attended very few social gatherings himself lately, so he had decided to wear his black robe and go with the classic, timeless charm that it brought.

He picked up his cane and opened his bedroom door. He could already hear voices coming from downstairs, but he didn’t care. He had to be fashionably late, just like Astoria was surely going to be.

He walked towards the stairs and climbed them down slowly, taking in the sight that unfolded in front of him with every step he took. The hall was filled with men in formal dresses and witches with complicated hairdos and stylish make-up. He recognised everybody and he was glad to see his former school mates all grouped in a corner, laughing and chatting loudly.

He stopped on the stairs and looked at them. He knew perfectly well that the only person missing from that scene was Pansy. They hadn’t invited her, surely she wouldn’t have wanted to come anyway, but what Draco would have given to see her there that night. To maybe dance with her at some point. To touch her. To take her upstairs to his room. He would have seen if she still remembered the Manor and its dark and tortuous hallways. He would have pushed her against a corner of his study and he would have showed her how well he remembered her body.

“Father!” Scorpius’ voice snapped him out of his thoughts as he ran towards him. Draco climbed down the last two steps that divided him from the ground floor and stretched his arms to swipe Scorpius off the floor and into his arms.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered in his ear, hugging him. “Are you having fun?”

Scorpius hugged him back before pulling away and looking his father in his eyes. He nodded, a smile spread upon his face. “I have a pile of presents!” he squealed excitedly.

Draco faked surprise. “A pile of presents!” he exclaimed. “Are you sure they are all yours?”

Scorpius pouted. “Yes, it’s my birthday,” he pointed out weakly.

Draco couldn’t help smiling. “Of course it is,” he agreed.

Scorpius’ eyes widened as he looked at something over Draco’s shoulder. “Mother,” he exclaimed.

Draco turned to look at Astoria as she climbed down the stairs like a model out of Witch Weekly. Her long, red dress had a rip up to her left thigh, a short trail and no straps. It wrapped her chest perfectly well and left her shoulders and long arms naked. Her brown curls were pulled up in a beautiful braid, and heavy diamonds were pulling at her earlobes.

“Happy birthday, my darling,” she chirped, smiling richly at Scorpius. “Does Mother look nice?”

Scorpius nodded. “Yes,” he breathed.

Draco’s eyes studied her icily. “Aren’t you going to be cold, Astoria?” he asked, unable to waste any compliment on her.

Astoria smiled at him. “If I am, I’m sure you’re going to keep me warm,” she replied sweetly.

Draco turned his head slowly to see a group of guests looking at them, smiling and nodding. Of course, for the sake of pretence.

“I’ll keep you warm too, Mother,” proposed Scorpius, already stretching his arms towards her to ask her to hold him in her arms.

She stretched a hand and stroked his cheek lightly with her perfectly manicured fingers. “Thank you my dear,” she replied, ignoring his tiny hands stretched towards her.

She walked past them and Draco held Scorpius until he stopped writhing in his arms, the eyes of the little boy following his mother as she walked away. He seemed saddened by her behaviour, and Draco couldn’t help hating her even more.

He slowly bent down and placed Scorpius on the floor. “I should think you want to open at least some of your presents, don’t you?” he asked, taking the boy’s hand.

Scorpius looked up at him with big, grey eyes. “Grandmother said that I have to wait,” he replied unhappily, “she said tomorrow morning will be more fitting.”

Draco smiled conspiratorially at him. “And I say we take a small one and open it now,” he whispered. “What do you think?”

Scorpius’ eyes flickered with excitement. “Yes,” he whispered back as he led his father towards the table where a pile of presents taller than himself was waiting for him.

“Which one, Scorpius?” asked Draco with a smile upon his lips.

Scorpius stood on tiptoes to look at the presents. They were wrapped with colourful papers and looked very inviting. Draco himself would have liked to take one and open it. He couldn’t remember the last time someone wrapped a present for him.

Scorpius ran around the table to look for the best yet smallest present to secretly unwrap without his grandmother noticing. Finally, he beckoned to Draco to go to the other side of the table and he discreetly pointed to a small, round box with a blue bow on top.

“That one?” asked Draco taking the present from the pile.

Scorpius nodded, looking around himself furtively. Draco handed him the box and Scorpius stared at it, torn between ripping it open and putting it back.

“Open it,” encouraged Draco gently.

Scorpius looked up at him with a worried smile and hurriedly started to pull the bow to make it come loose. Slowly and silently he raised the lid of the box and peered inside. His eyes widened and he closed the box immediately. He looked up at his father with a smile upon his face. “It’s a Snitch!” he exclaimed, forgetting his caginess.

Draco laughed. “A Snitch?” he exclaimed. “I wonder who would bring you such a present!” He picked the bow and saw that it was from Theodore Nott. “Can I see it?”

Scorpius smiled at his father and raised the box up for him to see, before lifting the top again. Draco looked at the Snitch. It was gold and decorated with the Malfoy crest and Scorpius’ initials. There was a low buzz and Draco saw its little wings unfolding slowly. “Close it!” he told Scorpius, chuckling. “We wouldn’t want a Snitch to get loose in the house.” He winked at Scorpius. “Your mother would have a heart attack.” And at that thought, Draco decided that probably it wouldn’t have been such a bad idea to let the Snitch free to roam the party.

Scorpius closed the box hurriedly and let out a giggle. Draco couldn’t help smiling at him.

“Oh, opening the presents, are we?”

Draco rolled his eyes and Scorpius looked from him to his aunt. “It’s a secret, Aunt Daphne,” he told her in a whisper, “Grandmother doesn’t want me to until tomorrow.”

Daphne smiled at her nephew. “And your father is breaking all the rules,” she told him, “what a brave man he is.”

Draco smiled stiffly at Scorpius. “Why don’t you go and put that in your room, Scorpius?” He lowered his voice and added, “Before your Grandmother sees you.”

Scorpius nodded quickly and ran away through the crowd of people that was already gathering around the tables covered with food. Draco grabbed a glass of wine from the tray of a passing house-elf and downed it. He needed something strong to talk to Daphne.

“Lovely party, isn’t it?” she asked breezily.

Draco looked around. He hadn’t been a good host, he hadn’t greeted anybody. He still had to go around and let the guests know that he was there. “Quite nice,” he conceded coldly.

“And Astoria looks radiant tonight,” she added.

Draco glanced distractedly at his wife. She was talking to Tracey, sipping champagne from a stem glass. “I suppose,” he replied vaguely.

Daphne smiled and opened her mouth to add something else, but Draco never got to know what it was because a plump, loud girl with a distasteful pink dress made her way to them and squealed in delight, “Happy birthday, Draco!”

Draco gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Millicent,” he greeted her, “thank you, but it’s not my birthday.”

Daphne looked at the girl with annoyance. “No,” she quipped, “it’s Scorpius’.”

Millicent laughed with mirth. “I know,” she let them know, “I just can’t find your little son.”

“He was here a second ago,” pointed out Daphne.

Millicent nodded and waved a hand to dismiss the subject. “Beautiful, beautiful party,” she complimented, looking at Draco, “I can’t wait to try all the food on those tables.”

Daphne smirked. “I’m sure you can’t.”

Millicent ignored her. “You know, I saw Pansy the other day,” she added with nonchalance, “I invited her over for dinner. We got takeout from the Leaky Cauldron, it was good.”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat when the witch said Pansy’s name with such casualness. He looked at her with pure envy at the thought that she could talk to her whenever she wanted and invite her for dinner. He wanted to shove Daphne away and ask Millicent everything about her.

“Did you invite her tonight?” she asked Draco.

Draco shifted on his feet. “I actually—”

“No, we didn’t,” replied Daphne dryly. “Can you see her?”

Millicent’s lips parted in surprise as she looked from Draco to Daphne. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “that’s what Pansy said, and I told her that surely her invitation got lost in the post…” Millicent looked back at Draco. “I told her to come anyway, I was inviting her, but she said I couldn’t do it, that I was not the host…”

Daphne looked at her with disdain. “Then she surely knows how to behave much better than you do, Millicent,” she hissed.

Millicent shrugged her shoulders and raised her chin. “She didn’t want to come anyway,” she let Daphne know sourly, turning on her heels and starting to walk away.

Draco swallowed and stepped behind her. He grabbed her wrist and made her turn. “Wait,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, “is she… is she alright?”

“I’m sure she is,” hissed Daphne at his back.

Draco turned to glare at her. “I wasn’t talking to you,” he snapped.

Daphne narrowed her eyes and looked away, her mouth a thin line on her face.

Millicent smiled, oblivious to their skirmish. “She is good,” she told him, “she keeps working and working and sometimes she takes some holidays alone. She’s been to Venice and Vienna.”

“Is she still working at Borgin and Burkes?” he asked.

“What? Oh Merlin, no!” she giggled. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Draco gritted his teeth, but didn’t reply.

“She still owns it,” she continued, “but she is renting it to an old couple. She works and lives in Mr Burke’s Apothecary now.” She shrugged her shoulders. “She is good, people like her.”

Draco nodded softly. “And she is fine?”

“Oh yeah,” replied Millicent, waving a hand in front of him, “she cut her hair a few years ago, and now she is back with her pageboy-cut. She looks younger.”

The next question was burning on Draco’s tongue, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask Millicent, and he didn’t have to, for his sister-in-law beat him to it. “Is she seeing anyone?” she asked coldly.

Millicent looked at her and shrugged a shoulder. “She wouldn’t say,” she told them reluctantly, “but I think she is.”

“Why?” asked Draco urgently. The thought of Pansy seeing someone made his heart ache.

“Because she keeps receiving presents from someone,” she replied with a grin, “someone rich. He got her jewels, books, clothes… even a cat!”

“And she wouldn’t say who?” asked Draco softly. “Why?”

“No idea,” replied Millicent, “I tell her everything and she just doesn’t even want to let me know who she is screwing…”

“Maybe she is screwing more than one man,” piped in Daphne, “maybe she has two jobs.”

Draco didn’t even turn to look at her. “Get lost, Daphne,” he growled, but she didn’t move.

“Shall I tell her something, Draco?” Millicent asked him. “Do you want me to pass her any message from you?”

Draco shook his head forcefully. “No, no,” he replied hurriedly, “and don’t tell her that we talked.”

Millicent shrugged again as if everything was just the same for her. “Okay,” she added, “now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and try some food – I love finger food, you can have so much without feeling full.”

Draco nodded distractedly as she walked towards the tables, picked a large plate and started to fill it with everything she could put her hands on.

“Please, Draco,” hissed Daphne at his back, “can you try to be less pathetic when you talk about Pansy?”

Draco ignored her. He put down his empty glass down and stormed away to find another house-elf. It was easy, the Manor was swarming with them and they were zooming between people’s legs and asking if they wanted something to drink. He had to start walking around and greeting people, and he did.

He started with Zabini and Nott and Goyle, they seemed happy to see him. He pretended he was too, but in reality his mind was somewhere else. He thought of Pansy again, and how much he missed her, again. He pictured her in the apothecary, putting potions in phials and sorting out ingredients. And in her new flat above the shop, he had never seen it, but he imagined it dark and small and clean and comfy.

He told his former classmates that they should help themselves to the food and moved on to another group of people. Distant relatives of Astoria and Daphne. They talked to him and he nodded distractedly, his mind filling with imagines of Pansy sleeping on a couch with a cat curled in her lap.

The evening continued like that until Draco was confident that he had welcomed everybody and that he had drunk enough alcohol to feel slightly numbed and be able to ignore the voices around him.

Half-way through the party, a three-layer cake was brought in the middle of the room, and Draco had to pick up Scorpius and raise him in his arms as he blew out the candles on top. People clapped their hands, Scorpius laughed, they sang happy birthday and then the cake was cut and the guests were stuffing themselves with the delicious whipped cream and the soft sponge cake.

“It’s time you go to bed, my darling,” Astoria told him as she wiped away some cream from Scorpius’ face.

“Oh no,” whined Scorpius, looking at his cousins who were allowed to stay there, even his little cousin, who was two years younger than him, “can I stay a little bit longer, Mother?”

“Scorpius,” she replied severely, “it’s past your bedtime.”

“Oh, leave him be,” snapped Draco, swallowing some cake, “it’s his birthday.”

Astoria glared at him and Draco smirked. Scorpius ran over to his father and threw his arms around his legs. “Thank you, Father,” he exclaimed, before running away towards his cousins.

“Draco,” his wife started, “you know I don’t like it when you—”

“What?” he asked, putting the plate down. “Undermine your authority?” He laughed. “And you know just how much I like it?”

Astoria glowered and so did her sister, who was sitting next to her. Draco ignored both of them and walked away. He needed some more alcohol and maybe needed to talk to someone whom he didn’t want to strangle. Surely the people who had shared his dormitory at school were a safe enough pick amongst all these pompous and stuck-up guests.

Goyle, Nott, and Zabini were still talking amongst themselves, as if they hadn’t done that all night long already. They were standing in a corner, near one of the big windows that overlooked the garden. Draco walked towards them, deciding to join in the conversation, whatever it might have concerned.

“Does Master Draco want something to drink?” squealed a house-elf at his feet.

Draco stopped and pursued his lips. “Yes, actually, Libby,” he replied thoughtfully, “fetch me something strong.”

The house-elf disappeared with a beam.

“Zabini, you are the stupidest freak I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet,” grunted Nott, shaking his head.

Draco leaned against the wall. That was interesting. He cracked a smile and strained his ear to listen as he waited for the alcohol.

Blaise sighed. “Oh come on,” he replied weakly, “you just say that because you haven’t seen her.”

“Excuse me?” asked Nott surprised. “Of course I’ve seen her.”

Blaise sighed. “I mean naked…”

Nott smirked. “And who says I haven’t?”

“I do,” snapped Blaise, and Draco looked as he narrowed his eyes.

“I had no idea,” growled Goyle in his deep voice, “I mean, I should know, Millie spends all her time with her…”

Blaise turned to look at him. “Yes, and you keep your mouth shut with your girlfriend, or I’ll hex you and then her…”

Goyle grunted something that sounded like, “She is not my girlfriend.”

“And with Malfoy,” added Blaise, “I don’t want him to know.”

Draco took a deep breath, his eyes wide. What were they talking about? Clearly some girl that Blaise was seeing in secret. But why didn’t he want him to know? Draco had the unpleasant feeling that he knew who he was referring to, but didn’t want to believe it.

“Whatever,” replied Nott dismissively, “but I still think that you are the stupidest man ever to walk this earth.” He gulped down some Firewhiskey and shook his head. “You of all people should stay miles away from her.”

“And why is that?” asked Blaise heatedly.

Goyle laughed. “Because of your mother,” he grunted, as if Blaise was stupid. That didn’t happen often, that Goyle felt more intelligent than someone else.

“Yeah,” agreed Nott, “your mother and her husbands and…  _her_  and her husband…”

“She was cleared of all charges,” pointed out Blaise, irritation in his voice.

“So was your mother,” Nott reminded him, “seven times. And, just like your mother, she inherited a little fortune: two shops, two flats and two vaults.” He chuckled loudly. “I’m sure Mrs Zabini is proud of her.”

Blaise put down his glass and Draco saw him fishing his wand out of his pocket. “She didn’t kill Borgin,” he hissed, “she would never do that.”

Draco felt his heart stop beating. He felt all the alcohol he had drunk that night coming back into his mouth with the cake and the food and felt the urge to throw up.  _Blaise was screwing Pansy_. The man he considered his best-friend was bedding the woman he had pined after for the past decade. He felt a rush of emotions. He felt betrayed, jealous, furious, outraged. He wanted to hex Blaise and turn him into a worm and then squash him on the floor with his foot.

“Bloody hell, Zabini,” exclaimed Nott, “are you in love with her?”

Draco felt his heart beating again. Furiously and almost painfully now.

Blaise made a disgusted face, but his eyes betrayed his nervousness. “Don’t be ridiculous…”

“Master Draco asked for—”

Draco tore the glass from the house-elf’s hand and pushed it away, glaring at the creature. He downed the content of his glass and felt it burn down his throat. He gave the glass back to his servant and shooed it away with his foot.

“Well, at least tell us what she’s like,” grunted Goyle, his beady eyes shining with anticipation.

Blaise seemed to relax as a cocky smile spread his lips. “She is good,” he grinned.

“Oh come on,” urged Nott, “I’ve been married for the past five years and I’m already sick of having to push into the same hole night after night. Give me something to think about when I’m in bed tonight.”

Blaise shook his head. “You’re an idiot, Nott,” he snorted truthfully, “I’ve been with Pansy for eight years.”

“What the hell?” sputtered Goyle. “And you never told us anything?”

“Forget that,” gasped Nott, “and you still enjoy her? Even after eight years?”

Draco had to close his eyes. He felt as if his head was about to explode. He could let Pansy get married to Borgin, because she didn’t love him and he didn’t love her. But Blaise… did she love him? It was clear as day that he felt something for her, but did she? He hated her now. He really did.

Blaise wetted his lips. “Well, we are not together together,” he explained, “we just…”

“You fuck her,” Nott finished for him.

Blaise cocked his head and smirked. “Let’s say that we have fun…”

Nott shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose that’s the trick then. Have fun…”

“Come on, though,” urged Goyle, “what’s she like? Is she tight?”

Draco’s fingers clutched around his wand. He wanted to use all the Unforgivable Curses he knew on them, and since there were three of them there he would have used one on each.

“Come on, Zabini,” coaxed Nott, “tell us about her.”

Blaise seemed torn, and for a split moment Draco hoped that he would not answer to their requests, that he would protect Pansy’s modesty, that he would not speak of her in lewd terms. He didn’t know what he would do if he did.

“Oh alright,” he finally conceded, “she…” He sighed and an idiotic smile appeared on his lips. “She is a really good fuck,” he finished, “she is small and has those perky, little breasts of her that I just like so much to suckle when we are having sex.”

Draco looked in disgust as Nott and Goyle drooled at Blaise’s words.

“And she is tight,” he continued, “Merlin! She has the tightest cunt I’ve ever fucked and— _Ouch_!”

Draco didn’t even know what he did, but when Nott told him afterwards, he let him know that he had swooped in on them like a fury.

He didn’t even take out his wand, and for the first time in his life, Draco punched someone in his stomach. He felt his fingers go numb as he stared at Blaise falling backwards on the floor. But Draco was quick as he bent over him while gasps and little cries raised from the crowd of guests. He grabbed Blaise’s robe and raised his head from the floor, the dark skinned wizard looked at him with wide eyes.

“You don’t get to talk about Pansy like that,” Draco hissed, “you are not even worthy to look at her, Zabini, you shouldn’t be talking about fucking her.”

Then Nott and Goyle grabbed Draco’s arms and he had to let him go.

“You are drunk, mate,” murmured Nott, holding him firmly. “Why don’t I take you upstairs?”

Nott turned to look around himself and to calm down the crowd. “Too much Firewhiskey,” he explained with a grin, “he just needs a good night sleep.”

Draco let him drag him away. His eyes met the frightened ones of Scorpius, and he had to look away until he locked eyes with his wife. She was looking at him icily as if she knew why he had done it. She was scarier than his Aunt Bella at that moment, and for a split second Draco worried that she might use the Cruciatus Curse on him just like Bella used to do on the people who displeased her.

But Nott dragged him away before she could do anything and soon he was stumbling on the steps that brought upstairs.

“Here,” he slurred when Nott made it to walk past his room.

Nott stopped and frowned, but he pushed the door open and dragged Draco to the bed. He let him fall unceremoniously on the mattress and looked around. “Oh, right,” he chuckled, kneeling in front of Draco to undo his shoes. “So things don’t go exactly well between you and Astoria.”

Draco grunted, unable to raise his head. “Things are perfectly fine.”

Nott chuckled. “Sure,” he mocked. He threw the shoes in a corner and pushed Draco on the bed, until he was lying in the middle of the mattress. “So, still Pansy, eh…?”

Draco shook his head to let him know that he didn’t want to talk about it, and he felt the room spinning around him. “He is not worthy of her,” he murmured, his words slurred with alcohol and sleep. “Not worthy…”

He closed his eyes and wasn’t aware of anything except for the door that closed and Nott’s steps that faded away. He fell asleep immediately, but had the same dream throughout the night and it kept waking him up.

He dreamt of Pansy.

And he dreamt of Blaise.

And he dreamt of them together.

***

On the first of September following Scorpius’ eleventh birthday, Draco woke up with a start. He had dreaded that day for the past months, and now that day had arrived. The day when he had to bid farewell to his son, when his house once again was going to be void of people he loved.

That day had arrived too quickly. To Draco it felt as if Scorpius was born the day before. He could still remember him being only a bundle in Astoria’s arms, so small and delicate that Draco was afraid to break him.

And now, he was a little man, a handsome, young fellow who was about to start a new chapter in his life, leaving his family behind for seven years. Coming home only for the holidays.

Draco had gotten up that morning with a dark expression upon his face and had dressed slowly as if to try to drag the day on and postpone the moment they would get into the car and drive to London. It was no use, the clock was ticking and soon they would leave the Manor.

Draco opened the door of his room on a very busy and loud hallway. Noises were coming mainly from Scorpius’ room, only a few doors down his own. He walked to his son’s room with a soft smile upon his face.

Scorpius was on his knees, digging toys from his wardrobe and tossing them into his school trunk. Astoria was looking at him severely and every time he tossed a toy in there, she fished it out quickly and silently. Narcissa was sitting on his bed and looked amused at her grandson.

“Done packing?” asked Draco, stepping inside.

Scorpius’ eyes darted to his father as he stood up and ran to hug him. “Almost,” he replied, “I can’t find my Ginny Potter Quidditch figurine.”

Draco had to stifle a groan. “I don’t think you should bring it to Hogwarts,” he told him seriously, “you wouldn’t have time to play with it anyway, Scorpius.” He thought at what a fool his son would make of himself if his fellow Slytherins found him playing with the figurine of Harry Potter’s wife. Because he would end up in Slytherin. Draco was sure about that.

The boy pouted. “But I really like it,” he protested.

Draco sighed. “Why don’t we go and have breakfast, and then we load the car and leave a bit early so that we can have a stroll around London?” he asked, trying to change the subject.

“I’ve already had breakfast and Mother said that I still have to shower before I leave, and then I still have to pack my books and the uniforms,” he told him, “and Mother said I’m not allowed my broom.”

“Not this year,” agreed Draco. “Very well, then,” he added to Astoria. “I shall expect you to be ready at eight thirty.”

“We will be ready well before that,” replied Astoria sourly, “we are not the ones who woke up ten minutes ago.”

“Oh Astoria,” coaxed Narcissa mildly, “you have to forgive my son, he was out late last night.” She looked at Draco and her eyes twinkled with something that Draco couldn’t quite define. Disappointment? Shame? Scorn?

Draco looked away from his mother and turned on his heels. “Well, I’m going to have breakfast,” he announced, walking out of the room.

***

In the car, Scorpius was a broken record, asking the same things over and over again. “Are we there yet?” and “What if I won’t be sorted in Slytherin?” being his favourite questions.

Astoria had announced that she was getting a headache the moment they took the M3, and complained for the rest of the journey about everything she could think of. Still, despite the noise and the complaints, the trip seemed too short to Draco and soon they were entering London and he was parking in front of Kings’ Cross.

“Father, we need to take a trolley,” Scorpius reminded him, getting off the car and looking at all those Muggles and wizards pushing trolleys about.

“Yes,” replied Draco, opening the trunk of his car. “I’ll take care of that.”

He collected an empty trolley and loaded it with his son’s trunk, and soon they were walking through the wall between platforms nine and ten. They left the trunk with a pile of other first years belongings and came to stand in front of one of the open doors of the train.

“You are going to write, Scorpius,” murmured Draco, fighting to keep his voice calm, “every day.”

Scorpius beamed at his father. “You too, Father,” he replied jokingly.

Draco smiled. “And I’m sure you’ll be sorted in Slytherin,” he continued, “you don’t even worry about—”

“Father, look!” exclaimed Scorpius, pointing his finger towards a group of people who were walking briskly in their direction. “It’s Ginny Potter!”

Draco looked at Harry Potter and his family walking past them, he followed them with his eyes and saw that they were joining Ronald Weasley and his own family a few feet away. He gave them a curt nod and Potter and Weasley responded to him with the same gesture.

“Don’t point, Scorpius,” murmured Astoria softly, “it’s not polite.”

“But she is Ginny Potter,” he exclaimed happily.

Draco sighed but nodded. “Yes,” he agreed, “and those are her children.” He looked at the two boys and the girl who were smiling and laughing, and seemed rather worried. The little girl was small and, Draco imagined, still too young to go to Hogwarts. Scorpius looked at her with big eyes, as if he wanted to muster the courage to talk to her, and for a moment he fretted that his son might have fallen for a Potter and the idea of joining his household with that of The-Boy-Who-Lived made him sick.

“And don’t stare,” Draco told him weakly.

Then the Hogwarts Express whistled and the students that were still on the platform hurried inside. Astoria hugged Scorpius gently and kissed him on his blond hair.

“Have a safe trip, Scorpius,” Draco wished him as he hugged him too. “And write soon.”

Scorpius wiggled free of his father’s arms and jumped on the train with a smile on his face. “I will,” he assured his father, “I’ll see you at Christmas.”

Astoria and Draco waved goodbye to their son as the train closed its doors. Smoke rose from the scarlet locomotive and the train started, engulfing the parents on the platform in a thick smoke.

“Let’s go,” hissed Astoria coldly before the train had even disappeared.

Draco cast her a gloomy glance, already dreading the return trip with just the two of them. He followed her through the station and outside, around them some parents were already walking towards the Apparition points.

Draco was about to suggest to Astoria to Apparate home when she slipped into the car. He took a deep breath and made to get in as well when someone called, “Malfoy!”

He turned to look at the source of the voice and found himself staring at Weasley as he bumped into Muggles while he tried to reach him.

Draco looked at him warily. “Weasley,” he addressed him, “if it’s about the annual donation to the Ministry I’m afraid this year we have decided to spend our money differently.” He crossed his arms to stress the fact that that decision was definitive.

“What?” asked Weasley, ruffling his hair and looking at Draco’s car. “No, no. It’s not about that…” He touched the shiny body of the car and Draco glared at him. “Is this yours?” he asked in awe. “Sweet.”

“Is this why I’m delaying my journey back home, Weasley?” he asked harshly. “To look at you drooling over my car?”

Weasley snapped out of his thoughts and looked at Draco, his hand leaving the car immediately. “No,” he replied, but contrary to what Draco expected, his voice was not harsh. “I just wanted to know about Parkinson.” He looked extremely serious. “I want to know if she’s alright.”

Draco looked at him expecting the redhead to say that he was joking, that he didn’t care about Pansy. But he didn’t. He was interested and Draco couldn’t understand why. Sure, he remembered him at the trial. He had looked upset, he had looked sorry for her. He had been touched by Mr Burke’s story, just like every other person present there.

“I’m afraid I haven’t seen her in ten years, Weasley,” Draco informed him softly.

The Auror nodded. “I understand,” he replied slowly. He turned and Draco saw Hermione Granger – now probably Weasley, unless she had been so stubborn as to keep her maiden name – and a small redhead boy looking at them. “I think I have to go,” Weasley told him.

Draco nodded. “Bye Weasley.”

“Yeah, bye Malfoy,” he replied before walking back to his wife and kid.

***

Draco walked into the Quiet Witch without his father. He nodded towards Mr Dunn and didn’t even sit down to discuss numbers and rooms. He had an appointment and knew the number of the room where he would find her.

He climbed up the stairs and walked into the room.  _His room_ , Mr Dunn had said, and that meant that he was a regular client. Only regulars got their own rooms.

He closed the door at his back and got undressed. He sat on the armchair in the corner and waited for the witch to come in. He was impatient and started to stroke his member to bring it to life.

When the door opened and a short, red-haired girl walked in, he was already hard. She looked shyly at him and closed the door at her back. She looked young, no more than twenty perhaps, and somehow she looked innocent.

“Undress,” he growled softly, “and come here.”

She did as she was told. She unbuckled her belt and let the white dress fall at her bare feet. She took a few steps towards him and stood right in front of Draco’s knees.

Draco’s hand was quick as he grabbed her wrist and pulled her towards him. He made her sit on his lap, knees on the armchair on either side of him. He placed a hand on the small of her back and pushed towards him until she was straddling his erection.

She smiled shyly and bent down to kiss Draco.

“Don’t,” he snapped, bringing a hand to clutch at her neck.

She stilled and let him use his other hand to guide her. He raised her hips and made her lower again, this time entering her in one swift thrust.

She took a sharp breath as he pushed into her and her small fingers clutched at the armrests. He started pounding into her without waiting for her to adjust to his size. She scrunched her eyes up and bit her bottom lip, stifling the cries that Draco was sure she would have liked to let out.

He came with a low growl at the back of his throat. He came into her and he could feel her legs twitching for the surprise of finding her insides coated with his seed. He pushed her off as quickly as he had pushed into her. He got dressed and left the room. He didn’t even look at her.

***

“I hope she was of your liking, Mr Malfoy,” drawled Mr Dunn softly.

Draco looked at him with contempt. “She was fine.”

Mr Dunn nodded. “You still have last week to settle, Mr Malfoy.”

Draco stiffened. “I know,” he replied coldly, “I’ll pay next week. Book me the room for this time on Friday.”

***

Scorpius’ first summer back from school passed quickly. He seemed happy to be home, and Draco was happy to have him back. He hadn’t written every day, but Draco had not expected him to, not really. He had been sorted into Slytherin, just like every single Potter and Weasley currently at Hogwarts had been sorted into Gryffindor. Nothing new there.

Draco asked him if he wanted to invite someone to the Manor for the holidays. Scorpius seemed torn, but in the end he said that there was nobody he could think of that he would have liked to have around for the whole summer. And Draco was grateful, because he had missed his son.

And the second summer too, it passed quickly. And this time Scorpius invited someone: a boy from his year. Draco had happily accepted to welcome the young boy for two weeks in his house, and when, during a casual conversation over dinner, it came up that the boy was a Ravenclaw and that his father was a Muggle, Draco had only chocked on his veal once and over all he had taken the news relatively better than the others.

***

Draco stared blankly at the Prophet. Pansy was on the first page, and there was a picture of her smiling at the reader. Draco considered it a treat. He could finally see what she looked like after all that time. To him she was as beautiful as she had always been. She looked happy as she smiled next to her Second Class Order of Merlin and with a phial of the potion she had discovered in her hands.

 _A potion that will heal almost every wound and work on almost every illness. A balsam that will bring you back from death._  That was how Rita Skeeter described it.

Draco was proud of her.

He smiled without even noticing while he read the article.

***

Draco couldn’t help noticing how old Healer Smethwyck looked when he came to visit Lucius. He wondered how old he actually was, and if he was older than Slughorn. The oldest person he knew who was still working and enjoying every minute of it.

Healer Smethwyck walked out of Lucius and Narcissa’s room with a tired and gloomy expression over his face. He closed the door at his back and gestured for Draco to follow him down the hallway, out of earshot apparently.

“Is it serious?” asked Draco, his voice broken with emotion.

The Healer nodded softly. “I’m afraid it’s dragon pox,” he let him know.

Draco frowned slightly. “That’s good, isn’t it?” he asked. “Dragon pox can be cured…”

“Not at this advanced stage,” he replied quietly, “and not with your father’s genetic predisposition to the illness.”

Draco paled. “Genetic predisposition?” he asked hoarsely.

“Your grandfather died of the same illness, am I correct?” he asked.

Draco nodded. “But my grandfather was old,” he pointed out, “older than my father.”

Healer Smethwyck shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s not much to do at this stage,” he repeated. “We…” He looked at Draco with sad eyes. “We’ve tried the Nightshade Draught, you know which one, don’t you? The new one that girl from Knockturn Alley had created—”

“I know which one,” replied Draco icily.

The Healer nodded. “It didn’t work,” he sighed, “I have to go and write a report to be added to the entry for that potion.”

Draco nodded. “How long does he…” his words trailed away as he swallowed and looked at his father’s door.

The Healer shook his head. “One day, one week, one month, two months,” he replied vaguely, “we can’t know.” He scratched his temple. “He asked for parchment and feather. He said he needs to send a letter to London.”

Draco nodded and thanked the man. The Healer patted his shoulder lightly, before turning towards the stairs and starting to climb down them. Draco closed his eyes. He was not sure he loved his father like a son should, but one thing he knew, he didn’t want him to die. He knew he would miss him. And at the same time he didn’t want to be left alone in that big house with two women who constantly teamed up to make his life hell. Not that his father did much to take his side against Narcissa and Astoria, but at least he was a reassuring presence in his life.

He was someone who didn’t want to constantly punish him for his mistakes, because Lucius knew that deep down he had made the same exact ones.

***

Lucius’ funeral was sober. To Draco’s surprise, Narcissa was quietly crying on her chair and so was Scorpius, pulled out of school during term to see his grandfather one last time before he died.

Astoria wasn’t crying, and her face was emotionless as she stared in front of her. Draco wasn’t crying either, but he wanted to. If only there weren’t all those journalists and cameras taking pictures. What were they doing there anyway? Draco didn’t know and he didn’t care. All he wanted was more time with his father, more time before he had to become the Lord of the Malfoy household, more time before he had to be the one responsible for their house.

He didn’t have more time, though. At forty he finally had to grow up.

***

_“I have to go, Draco,” whispered Pansy in his ear._

_Draco grabbed her naked figure and pulled her to him. Her warm body against his own made him moan in delight. “Wouldn’t it be nice if for once you didn’t have to go?” he asked her softly._

_“Yes,” she agreed, “so nice.”_

***

“Is there nobody you would like to invite this year, Scorpius?” asked Draco.

Scorpius looked up from his Transfiguration book. It was the first night that he was home, and he was already studying for his upcoming fourth year. Draco didn’t remember being that studious himself, had he taken after Astoria? He didn’t know.

The boy’s face flushed slightly as if yes, there was someone he would have wanted to invite, but didn’t want to ask his parents for it. “No,” he replied softly, “thank you, Father.”

Astoria didn’t miss the chance. “Then I should ask Daphne to send your cousins over, Scorpius,” she chirped sweetly. “I know how fond you are of them.”

Scorpius shifted uncomfortably on the armchair, his face unable to mask his slight horror at his mother’s offer. “They are too old to have fun here with me,” he replied diplomatically.

“Not your little cousin,” she quipped, “she always loves to spend time with you.”

Scorpius nodded softly, but slumped his shoulders at the proposition.

“There are not going to be any cousins here this year,” Draco stepped in, trying to save his son, “for Scorpius and I are leaving.”

Both Astoria and his son looked at him with a puzzled look.

“And where are you going, if I may ask?” the woman asked coldly.

Draco smiled at Scorpius. “You may ask,” he told her, “wherever Scorpius wants to go.”

“Just us?” asked Scorpius, finally closing the book.

“Just us.”

“Anywhere I want?” he asked, beaming now.

“Anywhere you want,” he replied gently, “where would you like to go?”

Scorpius seemed to think hard at the question as if he only got one chance in all his life to go away with his father. “Spain,” he finally breathed out.

Draco put down the glass of Firewhiskey that he was sipping and stood up. “It’s settled then,” he told him, “we leave next week, by car. I know just the right hotel in Madrid where we can stay.”

“Thank you, Father!” exclaimed Scorpius happily. “Mother, did you hear? We are leaving next week.”

Astoria looked from Scorpius to Draco. “And may I ask you with what money you’ll pay for the hotel, Draco?” she asked icily.

“Again Astoria,” replied Draco just as coldly, “you may ask.” He smirked. “I don’t think you need that house in London anymore, do you?”

Astoria looked at him, and if a glare could kill Draco would be dead.

***

Draco didn’t like Spanish witches. They were loud and they didn’t know what ‘don’t talk’ meant. Not even when he dutifully said it in Spanish. They kept talking and screaming and begging, even when his hand went to their mouths and he thrust into them so hard that any normal girl would have just shut up and start moaning. They didn’t, and Draco hated them more than the girls of the Quiet Witch.

***

A waiter brought a letter on a small, silver plate and placed it on the table. Draco saw it was addressed to his son in a tidy, but still young writing.

“You get an awful lot of post, Scorpius.” Draco cut his Tortilla de Patata and brought a bite to his mouth. “Even here.”

Scorpius smiled awkwardly and grabbed the letter, pushing it in his pocket, his face visibly impatient to be alone and open it.

“What’s her name?” he asked, washing down the Tortilla with a gulp of Butterbeer.  _Cerveza de mantequilla_ , as they called it there.

Scorpius’ eyes widened. “Why should it be a  _she_ , Father?” he asked surprised.

Draco smirked. “You wouldn’t be so secretive about one of your mates writing to you,” he pointed out, “am I correct?”

“I’m not secretive,” he protested weakly.

Draco’s expression softened. “Why didn’t you invite her to the Manor?”

Scorpius swallowed noisily, lowering his eyes on his own Tortilla. He shook his head softly. “I don’t think you’d like her,” he murmured.

“Is she ugly?” asked Draco amused.

Scorpius looked up at his father, his eyes wide. “No!” he replied forcefully. “She is…” his voice dropped, “she is beautiful.”

Draco wanted to laugh at his son because such words seemed ridiculous in a fifteen-year-old boy’s mouth, but how could he? He was younger than him when he had started to think that Pansy was beautiful too.

“Then what’s wrong with her?” he asked him. “Do I know her parents?”

Scorpius flushed slightly. “You might,” he muttered in a whisper.

Draco tried to recall who amongst his former classmates had children in Hogwarts already. Not many, except for Daphne, but Scorpius had already showed his dislike towards her children, and maybe Tracey. Nott’s child was still too young, and he was happy that Goyle and Millicent didn’t have any and looked like they wouldn’t have any for a long time. Blaise was still childless and Draco didn’t want to think about Pansy because her son –  _his son_  – would have been Scorpius’ age at that time. He thought with discomfort at the fact that the little girl his son was pining for was the daughter of someone who had not been in Slytherin.

“And does she have a name?” he finally asked.

Scorpius almost gasped over his Tortilla. He had probably thought that his father had decided to let the subject fall and found out that he was wrong. He opened his mouth to reply, but closed it almost immediately.

“Come on,” encouraged Draco.

Scorpius lowered his eyes. “Rose,” he finally confessed softly.

Draco smiled. “Well, that’s a pretty name, isn’t it?” he assured him. “And what do her parents do?” An innocent enough question to test the background of the girl.

“They work for the Ministry,” replied Scorpius, his voice slightly more relaxed.

So wizards, both of them. At least that was an improvement from the last time he had brought a friend over. “You should invite her to the Manor,” he told him gently. “I would like to meet this girl who has my son blushing at my questions.”

***

Draco walked into his son’s room with an annoyed expression. Sixteen-year-old Scorpius was lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling, the same depressed expression he had been wearing for the past fortnight plastered on his face.

“What’s wrong, Scorpius?” he asked heatedly, sitting in a chair. “You’ve done nothing but sulk for the past two weeks.”

Scorpius sighed. “Nothing, Father.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Evidently it’s not  _nothing_ ,” he snapped.

Scorpius didn’t reply, he didn’t even look at him.

“Is it that girl?” he finally asked. “What was her name? Do you still like her?”

Scorpius finally looked at him, annoyance on his face. “It’s Rose,” he replied, irritated that he would forget her name, “and I don’t like her. I love her.”

Draco wanted to tell him that love was too strong a word for a teenager, but he couldn’t. “Then invite her to the Manor and stop moping,” he snapped.

“I did,” replied Scorpius dejectedly.

Draco was starting to understand. “And she doesn’t want to come?” he asked more softly. “Maybe she doesn’t reciprocate your feelings, Scorpius.”

“She does!” he retorted forcefully.

Draco chuckled. “How do you know?” he asked him, but regretted it immediately. It seemed ages since he had been a teenager himself, but he remembered his first kiss with Pansy, and the first time she had lain with him. He had been only one year older than Scorpius at that time, and he couldn’t pretend to believe that his son was still inexperienced, at least at kissing a girl.

Scorpius flushed, but didn’t reply to his father’s question, instead he told him, “Her parents don’t want her to come,” he admitted.

Draco felt outraged. Who would not trust them with their child? The Manor was a perfectly safe environment and he considered himself and Astoria to be reliable parents.

“They would like me to go to their house for the summer,” he continued shyly.

Draco flared his nostrils. That was out of the question, summer was the only time when he could see his son, and he wouldn’t let him go away just to see a girl. Yet, he probably would have preferred him to be happy somewhere else rather than depressed at the Manor.

“Here’s what we are going to do,” proposed Draco, pursuing his lips, “you give me your friend’s address, and I’ll write to her parents. We’ll make a pact, you can go there if she can come here.” He grinned. “I’m sure they’ll agree that that’s a fair enough compromise.”

Scorpius’ face lit up with a smile. “Really, Father?” he asked excitedly. “Would you do that?”

Draco smiled. “Give me the address,” he agreed gently.

Scorpius jumped off the bed and grabbed a piece of parchment and a feather. Draco saw him scribbling down the address by heart and he handed it to his father. “Thank you!” he cried, offering to him the first real smile since he had got back from school.

Draco looked at the parchment and chuckled. He stretched his hand to give it back to Scorpius. “You’re funny, Scorpius,” he smiled. “Now give me the real address.”

Scorpius frowned. “That is the real address,” he replied slowly.

Draco narrowed his eyes and swallowed. “What do you mean  _Hermione and Ronald Weasley_?”

***

Rose Weasley arrived on a Sunday morning with a small suitcase and a long, curly mane of flaming hair. She looked small and almost frightened as she stepped out of the fireplace and into the drawing room. Her blue eyes looking desperately for someone she knew.

“Miss Weasley,” Astoria greeted her coldly, walking to her to kiss her on her cheek. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Thank you, Mrs Malfoy,” she replied politely, her voice tiny, before turning towards Draco to greet him.

He stretched out a hand to her and she shook it. “Miss Weasley,” he greeted her, “I hope the journey was not too unpleasant.”

Rose’s hand went mechanically to her hair, to smoothen it out as well as to brush the Floor Powder from her curls. “No,” she replied, blushing slightly.

“Rose!”

The girl’s face lit up when Scorpius walked into the drawing room. He walked up to her and Draco could see both of them looking slightly flushed as they were trying to understand which way was the best to greet each other without causing a fit to either Draco or Astoria. Scorpius lowered his head slightly and she kissed his cheek in a chaste and quick gesture.

“I’m so glad you are here,” he exclaimed and Draco could hear the emotion in his son’s voice. The same emotion he felt when he saw Pansy.

“I’m glad to be here,” she replied sweetly. “Oh,” she added, opening her suitcase and rummaging through it, “I almost forgot. Mum gave me this,” she took out a big, round thing, wrapped in tinfoil, “it’s a carrot cake. She made it herself.”

Astoria took the dessert from her hands and looked at it as if she was disgusted to have to touch something that a Muggleborn had made. “Thank you,” she replied, managing to make it sound like a reproach.

Rose smiled shyly.

“Come,” Scorpius urged her excitedly, taking her luggage, “I’ll show you your room.”

Rose followed him out of the drawing room, probably feeling relieved to be able to leave that crowd.

“You can’t be serious,” hissed Astoria as soon as the steps of the two youngsters faded away.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Draco, sitting on an armchair and picking up the Prophet.

She crossed her arms and glared at him. “I thought you didn’t want Scorpius to go through what you did,” she told him icily.

Draco looked at her and raised his eyebrows. “Exactly,” he replied calmly.

“Then why would you encourage this friendship?” she asked coldly, “inviting her over to the Manor…”

Draco took a deep breath. “First of all,” he began, “I don’t think this is just a friendship.” He smirked and Astoria’s face hardened. “And secondly, I don’t want to encourage or discourage it in anyway. Whatever will happen will happen.” He shrugged a shoulder. “But don’t you worry too much, they are still young.”

“Don’t talk to me about being young and being in love,” she hissed, “we’ve already seen the consequences of that.”

Draco clenched his jaw. “This is going to be different,” he snapped.

Astoria smiled cruelly. “Oh, and how so, Draco? Pray tell.”

“Because when the time comes if Scorpius wants to marry her, I will give them my blessing.” Now it was his time to smirk at her as she turned slightly green.

“You would do that only in spite of your mother and me,” she barked, “a payback.”

“Indeed,” agreed Draco calmly, “as a payback and to make my son happy.”

***

“Can we be excused?” asked Scorpius as he placed his cup of tea on the coffee table. “I wanted to show the library to Rose.”

“Of course,” replied Draco softly, looking as the two teenagers made their way out of the drawing room. He couldn’t help noticing their hands as Scorpius intertwined his fingers into hers the moment they left the room. Somehow he didn’t think that they would be too interested in the books.

Astoria stood up. “I’m going to bed,” she announced icily. “Good night, Narcissa.” She didn’t even look at Draco as she exited the drawing room, leaving mother and son alone.

Minutes of uncomfortable silence passed, and Draco hoped that his mother would go to bed soon as well. After all, she was old, she shouldn’t stay up late. Draco wondered if he should have suggested her to retire.

“Do you like the little girl, Draco?” she asked before he could talk.

Draco looked at her. “Scorpius is the one who has to like her,” he told her simply.

Narcissa looked back at him, a smirk on her face as she shook her head softly. “You are so different from your father,” she murmured.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mother.”

She shook her head again. “Not this time,” she replied softly.

Draco looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Then you should tell me what I did right,” he quipped, “because that doesn’t happen often with you.”

Narcissa smirked. “Oh, I could never tell you, Draco,” she replied her voice heavy with fake sweetness, “you still have such fond memories of your father.” She licked her lips. “I’m sure you’d never forgive me if I told you what he liked to do.” She looked at him as if all she was waiting for was another question from him, another enquire about his father. As if she couldn’t wait to tell him.

He was afraid that curiosity was going to kill him, but he couldn’t resist. “I won’t hold you responsible for your words,” he told her, “if they are true.”

Narcissa smiled cruelly. “Oh Draco,” she purred, “I don’t lie to you when I say that I’m glad you don’t have the same tastes as your father.”

“What do you mean?” he asked her stiffly.

She brushed her blond hair away from her eyes. “Your father had a predilection for young girls,” she informed him coldly, “but I’m sure you already know that if you’ve accompanied him to the Quiet Witch.”

Draco felt uncomfortable when he noticed that his mother knew the name of the place where his father cheated on her. “Yes,” he replied as coldly as her, “and what does this have to do with me?”

“Well,” she continued, “when a young girl would be at the Manor, he would lose all his composure and wouldn’t waste time as he used her the way he preferred.”

Draco furrowed his brow. “Are you trying to say that Father and my wife…” His words trailed away. As shocking as the news might have been for him, the knowledge that Astoria might have cheated on him made him almost euphoric.

“Oh no,” replied his mother, “your father disliked Astoria greatly, especially after the inconvenience with the trial.” She smiled softly. “And he had to go to such lengths to keep his hands away from Daphne’s little girl. He was at the inn almost every night when they were here.”

“Then what are you talking about?” he asked her heatedly.

Narcissa chuckled softly. “Really, Draco? You can’t think of any other young witch who used to come here to spend her summers?”

Draco felt his stomach churn. He looked at his mother with a deadly stare, his mouth was a thin line as he gritted his teeth so forcefully a headache started to spring behind his eyelids. He sucked in his breath. “Pansy…” he breathed.

Narcissa looked at him steadily. “Oh,” she murmured softly, “how much he liked to touch her. Touch her like no grown man should touch a child.” She sat as still as a statue, her face clear of all emotions as she stared at her son. “Touch her until he was satisfied and until she cried. How many times I’ve found her crying in her room in the middle of the night, too scared to even talk of what Mr Malfoy had done to her.”

“You’re lying,” murmured Draco emotionlessly.

Narcissa cocked her head. “I wish I were,” she told him, “I used to like her when she was little, because she made you happy. But your father… he lost his head for her.” She shook her head. “If he hadn’t hated to take away a girl’s virginity so much, he would have never waited for her to go to you first.” She smirked. “But while he waited for you to take her for the first time, he put her mouth at good use. I’m sure you noticed how good she was when you were still at your first experiences.” 

Draco felt as if a swarm of bees were flying in his head. What was that witch saying? He heard the words, but they didn’t make sense to him. His father… Pansy… How could he? How could Draco not notice? How could his father do that to her? Just to find pleasure. To find pleasure with a child. He remembered Mr Dunn’s words,  _extremely young, not a virgin, a screamer_ … Did Pansy tick all the boxes? He was nauseated at the thought. When Pansy was there, he was still a little boy, playing with toys and brooms, and she was a little girl, touched and fucked by his father when he wasn’t looking.

“And after she had given her virginity to you,” she continued, “he was out of control.” She looked away now. “He was the one who told me to give her the anti-contraceptive potion that year, before he took her in every corner of the Manor, against every wall and on every—”

“Stop,” growled Draco, his heart aching. “I don’t want to hear it.”

Narcissa shook her head. “No,” she agreed, “that’s exactly what your father told her to keep her quiet. That you didn’t want to hear it.” She stood up from the armchair as silently as she could.

“Why do you tell me now?” growled Draco, his heart beating in his temples.

Narcissa smiled cruelly. “You asked me, Draco.”

***

Vienna was romantic and the streets were filled with music. The girls were less loud than in Spain, but when they talked Draco didn’t like the sound of their language. He spent a week in the hotel hidden from Muggle eyes on the top floor of the Opera State. He ate the heavy Austrian cuisine every day and asked for a different girl every night.

He didn’t give the hotel his real name and Disapparated the day of the check-out without paying.

Money was scarce again in his household.

***

Narcissa looked at her grandson with eyes filled with fury. “Would you care to repeat, Scorpius?” she asked in a low hiss.

The young man swallowed. It seemed he needed to muster his courage to repeat what he had just said. He looked at his father for support, but Draco didn’t give him any. Finally, he looked back at his grandmother. “I said that I found a job,” he let her know.

“Malfoys don’t work,” hissed Narcissa, “that’s  _humiliating_.”

“Some people would differ, Grandmother,” he told her quietly.

Narcissa laughed. “ _Some people would differ_ ,” she mimicked his voice, “I’m sure those people are the parents of that little girl you sleep with.”

Scorpius blushed violently, but Draco didn’t know if it was in anger or in humiliation. “Maybe,” he hissed.

“And where is this job?” asked Astoria, and her voice seemed calmer than Narcissa’s.

“The Ministry,” he replied, looking at his mother, “I’ll be working as an assistant Auror until next January, then I’ll start my training.” He looked at his father. “It’s a great honour, they don’t just accept everybody.”

His father cocked his head. “So, it was Ronald Weasley who pulled a couple of strings to get you hired before the training,” he told him calmly.

Scorpius lowered his eyes. “He just pointed out to the Head Auror that I was a good candidate,” he admitted.

 _He pointed out to Potter_. “And is Rose going to be an Auror as well?” asked Draco.

Scorpius shook his head. “She wants to work in the International Magical Office of Law,” he explained. “It’s a respectable position.”

Narcissa looked from Scorpius to Astoria to Draco, probably irritated that she was the only one to find the news of a Malfoy having a job so outrageous. “Next thing you’ll tell us is that you won’t live in the Manor anymore,” she hissed to her grandson.

Scorpius swallowed. “Actually, I will need to find a place,” he whispered, “closer to the Ministry.” He looked at his grandmother and added quickly, “Only until the training is over, then I can come back here and use the Floo Network to go to work.”

Draco smiled softly. “I have just the right place for you, Scorpius,” he let him know. “How would you like to live in Diagon Alley?”

***

“You two will bring shame to this family by allowing Scorpius to work and live away from the Manor,” hissed Narcissa to Draco and Astoria.

Astoria shook her head. “How will he live if he doesn’t work?” she asked bitterly. “There is no more money in our vault.”

***

_“So, the day has finally arrived,” murmured Pansy, “the happiest day of your life. The wedding of the century. Wasn’t there an article in Witch Weekly about you?”_

_Draco snorted. “It was the Daily Prophet and it was a short article.” He looked at her and he saw that she was naked. “Why did you come?” he asked her._

_“I came for you,” she whispered, kissing him._

“Draco!” Astoria’s voice and her pounding on the door had the power to jerk him awake. “Do you want to miss your son’s wedding?” she cried from the hallway.

***

Narcissa had complained so much about the wedding while she was sitting next to Draco that he was just glad the first part was finally over. It had been a small, intimate ceremony in the garden of the Manor. Exactly where Draco had married Astoria years before.

This time though, the chairs had been filled with redheads and with Gryffindors, Slytherins and other friends of the couple from school. Rose was beautiful in her bridal gown, Scorpius was a masterpiece in his robe. Hermione Weasley had cried during the exchange of the vows, Ronald Weasley had danced with his daughter to open the dances. Astoria had danced with Scorpius and then Scorpius with Rose.

Draco had sat looking at him all the time. Scorpius was so different from himself on his wedding day. Maybe it was the fact that he was marrying someone he loved, or because he emanated an aura of kindness all around him, all the time, but Draco couldn’t recognise himself in that young man. How had he managed to raise him like that was also a mystery. Astoria was definitely not the one who had brought kindness and sweetness in their family, and the Malfoys were not known for their kind-heartedness.

How did Scorpius grow up to be like that? To be a young man who had friends amongst purebloods and Muggleborns, amongst Slytherins and Gryffindors, rich and poor. Had it been all Draco’s fault? Ever since that night, when Scorpius was only a baby, when he had whispered into his ear that he could have married whoever he wanted, loved whoever he wanted, Draco had unwittingly pushed him towards a life of love. And that was the result. His pure genes tainted with those of the daughter of a Muggleborn. Draco sighed. That was the result. A son who loved him and was happy with the woman he had chosen for himself.

“Malfoy,” called Weasley, sitting next to him, his cheeks slightly flushed for the wine and the dances. “Nice wedding.”

Draco glanced briefly at the wizard, before returning his stare to the happy couple. “Yeah, not bad,” he agreed.

Weasley nodded, bobbing his head with the music. “We need to discuss the holidays when you have time, you know.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and looked back at him. “The holidays?” he asked puzzled.

Weasley nodded, trying to look cheerful. “Well,” he started unsurely, “aren’t we a family now?”

Draco took a deep breath. “Did your wife send you?” he asked lightly.

“Maybe,” conceded Weasley nervously.

Draco nodded curtly. “Women,” he drawled.

“Women,” agreed Weasley.

***

The girl at the Quiet Witch looked so young to Draco. But as he did up his trousers, he understood that she wasn’t any younger than the others that he had used before. He was the one who was getting old. Fifty years and he could see each and every single one of them as he looked at the wrinkles on his face and his receding hairline. He was like a bottle of wine turning to vinegar with time.

He didn’t look at the girl as he walked out, but he heard her still panting on the bed. He walked down the stairs and opened the door that led to the front of the Quiet Witch.

Draco stopped in his tracks.

The inn was deserted, and to Draco’s memory it had never been before. Always bustling with clients and sometimes with girls. Dodgy-looking customers always sat at the dirty tables.

“Mr Malfoy.” Mr Dunn appeared out of nowhere before Draco, almost startling him.

“Mr Dunn,” replied Draco coldly, “I’d like to book a room for next week, same time.”

Mr Dunn studied his face, before shaking his head. “Not this time, Mr Malfoy,” he replied, “not before you’ve settled the bill.”

Draco raised his chin in a haughty gesture. “I’ll settle it next week,” he let him know coldly.

Mr Dunn shook his head. “No.”

Draco tightened the cloak around himself. “I don’t have money with me,” he told him heatedly.

Mr Dunn’s eyes went to his silver cane. “We accept other kinds of payments as well,” he assured him.

Draco clutched his fingers around the cane. “I’ll pay you next week,” he snapped, walking past him.

Another wizard dressed in black with a neatly trimmed beard came to stand between him and the door.

“I don’t think you understood me, Mr Malfoy,” drawled Mr Dunn, “there’s no next week unless you settle your debt.”

Draco didn’t listen to him and made to walk out, but another wizard with red hair stepped in front of him and pushed him back.

“How dare you?” cried Draco, drawing out his wand and pointing it at the wizard. “Don’t touch me, you piece of scum.”

“Mr Malfoy,” Mr Dunn called his name calmly, “we’re all friends here. Put down your wand.”

“I’ll put it down when I’m out of here,” he replied heatedly, “now move.”

“ _Flipendo_!”

Draco was pushed forward by the warning spell. He turned with his back towards the wall and saw that all three men had their wands pointed at him. “Mr Malfoy,” called Mr Dunn placidly, “you can’t win.”

Draco smirked. “Oh,” he hissed, “we’ll see about that.  _Sectusempra_!” But his hex didn’t hit anybody.

“ _Stupefy_!” someone screamed.

“ _Inflatus_!” someone else cried.

“ _Incarcerous_!”

Draco didn’t even know who was screaming what, he just knew that he had to keep his wand moving to sheath himself from the spells. Some of them hit the wall next to his head, some others the floor. A mirror fell and burst into pieces.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” shouted Draco, and one of the wands of his opponents flew into his hand. He smirked as he looked at his conquest for a second too long before returning his attention to the men. 

“Malfoy,” hissed Mr Dunn from somewhere close to him.

Draco turned to look at the man and saw that he was smirking. Then he felt something cold against his stomach and when he looked down there was blood on his robes. And there was a dagger in the man’s hand and it was covered in blood too.

Then Draco didn’t feel anything and everything became black. And he was falling.

***

When Draco opened his eyes, the lights were so strong they hurt him. He was in pain and couldn’t move. A warm hand clutched his arm. “Draco,” called a woman’s voice urgently.

He opened his mouth to reply, but no sound left his lips. Then he fell unconscious again.

***

_Draco opened his eyes to find himself in Scorpius’ flat. Only he knew that it wasn’t Scorpius’ flat. Not yet._

_He was lying on the bed that he had shared with Pansy so many times. He was naked and unable to move. Something was pushing him down against the mattress. He looked down to see Pansy sleeping with her head against his stomach._

_He smiled at her and brought a hand to caress her hair. She stirred on his stomach and he cupped her cheek to bring her up to him. She let him and he found that she was weightless as he pulled her to him and kissed her._

_She kissed him back, moaning against his lips. She withdrew and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I want to see you,” she whispered._

_“You are seeing me,” he chuckled._

_She shook her head. “No,” she murmured softly, “I want to see you for real.” She kissed his chest. “I promise that I’ll come,” she breathed against his skin, “if you call me…” She raised her head to look firmly at him. “I promise, Draco…”_

_Draco felt his heart swell as his eyes blurred with tears. “Pansy…”_

***

Draco felt a gentle hand touching him. It was warm and soft and it felt good against his sweat covered skin. He moaned as it reached his stomach and the hand withdrew.

“Mr Malfoy,” called a young girl’s voice. “Mr Malfoy, can you hear me?”

Draco’s eyes opened slightly and he saw the blurred figure of a blonde young woman looking down at him. “Light,” he murmured, and found out that his mouth was dry.

The girl muttered an incantation and soon the light was less intense. “Is it better?” she asked gently.

He swallowed and kept closing and opening his eyes until he could make out more than just blurry figures around him. It didn’t help. He closed his eyes and didn’t open them as he fell asleep again.

***

Draco opened his eyes and to his surprise, he could see. He looked around and saw that he was in his room, at the Manor. The curtains were drawn around his bed and there were shadows behind them.

He tried to sit up, but the moment he moved his arms to push on them, he let out a whimper of pain.

The shadows moved quickly towards him.

“Father,” gulped Scorpius, sitting on the bed next to him and looking at him with eyes filled with sorrow. At his back, Rose was looking at him with her face screwed in horror and her hand on her pregnant belly.

“My stomach,” breathed Draco, bringing a hand to it and finding a bandage drenched in blood.

“I know,” whispered Scorpius with pity in his voice, “you’ve been stabbed.” He grasped his father’s hand to bring it away from the wound. “You’ll be alright,” he assured him softly.

Draco nodded, then suddenly he was engulfed by darkness again.

***

Healer Victoire Lupin was young and pretty, and Draco could see that Astoria didn’t like her from the way she looked at her. The Healer seemed unfazed by the woman’s stare as she unwrapped the bandages to have a look at his wound.

“When is he going to get better?” asked Astoria heatedly.

Healer Lupin didn’t look at her. “I’m afraid we won’t know until he actually starts to get better,” she replied calmly.

Astoria shifted on the armchair. “What kind of Healer are you?” she growled. “Not know…”

Draco stifled a whimper as the Healer cleaned his wound. “Astoria,” he breathed, looking at the blood that was spilling from his stomach, “get out.”

She crossed her arms on her chest. “Draco…”

“Just get out,” he murmured, “I need to talk to the Healer alone.”

He didn’t look at her as she stood up and walked away, and he knew she was gone only when the door closed. Healer Lupin hadn’t said a word nor taken her eyes away from the wound for the whole exchange, and Draco was grateful for that.

“Healer,” he grunted as she wrapped the bandage again around his body, “what’s wrong with me?”

Healer Weasley didn’t look at him. “You’ve been stabbed, Mr Malfoy,” she replied softly.

Draco moaned as she secured the bandage around him. “If it’s just a stab why am I still bleeding?” he asked stiffly.

She finally looked at him. She was young, but looked like she had seen too much already. “The blade that was used to stab you was cursed,” she explained, “we’ve tried all the traditional spells and potions but nothing seems to work.”

She looked at him intently. “It might help to know what happened to you the night of the assault,” she continued, “but Mrs Malfoy doesn’t want to report the crime nor to give any information about it.” She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe you can shed a light and point us towards the right direction. You know, it would help to find the blade that stabbed you.”

Draco closed his eyes. He would have preferred to die in excruciating pain rather than have his family exposed to another scandal. Not now that Scorpius was about to become a father, that he had a respectable job and a respectable wife that he loved.

He shook his head.

The Healer sighed as if she had expected that. “There’s something we haven’t tried yet,” continued the girl, “because we need your consent. It’s still experimental, it will be for the next few decades.”

“What is it?” he asked, groaning in pain.

“The Nightshade Draught,” she replied. “It might not work but—”

Draco shook his head again. “I don’t want anything,” he groaned stiffly, “call my wife.”

The Healer started to fret. “But it may save you and—”

“Call my wife.”

***

The pain was almost unbearable at times, and Draco had to keep moving on the bed to find a position that didn’t hurt him.

“Stop struggling, Draco,” whispered Astoria, her voice soft and almost gentle, “it’s worse.”

Draco stopped. He stretched a hand towards her and she took it. “Astoria,” he murmured feebly.

“Draco,” she replied her voice broken, a soft, reassuring smile on her lips.

“Astoria,” he repeated, closing his eyes and taking a deep, painful breath, “call her.”

He felt Astoria’s hand stiffen in his own and she tried to wiggle free of his fingers, but he squeezed her hand with what was left of his forces to keep her there.

“Draco, don’t ask me that,” she whispered painfully.

“Please,” he whined, and he was aware that that was the first time he begged with her, “I need to see her.” He took a deep breath. “I need to tell her… tell her that I—”

“I’m sure she knows, Draco,” Astoria cut him off urgently, probably not wanting to hear.

Draco opened his eyes to look at her. “Yes,” he agreed weakly, “but I’ve never told her.”

Astoria’s face fell, as if she couldn’t believe what her husband was saying. As if she had expected him to have declared his love for the other woman every single time they had been together. 

“Please,” he repeated in a whisper.

Astoria looked away from his pain-filled eyes and closed her eyes. She shook her head softly. “I’ll send Scorpius,” she told him in a whisper.

Draco felt the pain in his stomach recede as a weight was lifted from him. “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A missing scene from this chapter can be found [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2366009/chapters/5485475).


	14. Epilogue

***

Scorpius offered Pansy his arm.

“No,” she replied, her voice a bare whisper, “I know where the Manor is.”

He looked at her as if he didn’t know anything about her, and certainly as if he didn’t know why she would know the location of his father’s house, and Pansy imagined that he didn’t. He nodded though, and Disapparated from the closed apothecary with a pop.

Pansy pushed her hands in her pockets and clutched her fingers around the small phials of Nightshade Draught one more time, before closing her eyes and thinking ardently about Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire.

She felt the tug of Apparition in her stomach, and when she opened her eyes she was standing next to the young man again, the Manor in front of her.

Pansy’s breath caught in her throat. Yes, she recognised the place. The tall gates, the immense garden, the stern castle-like building. She knew it was the right place. But yet, everything looked different.

The gates had been wrecked from their hinges, and Scorpius didn’t even have to open them to let them pass through. He bent his back and offered Pansy a hand to help her to the other side. She took it and couldn’t help noticing how warm and soft they were.

They walked in silence on the path that led to the Manor. The grass was tall and untamed, as if it hadn’t been cut in a long time. She glanced at the orchard, the one that Astoria had wanted when she had first moved in, and saw that many trees were dead, rotten fruit lay on the ground under them and swarms of flies buzzed around them.

As they neared the Manor, Pansy could see poisonous ivy covering the lower part of the building, and some of the windows of the second and third floor appeared to be broken. Pieces of glass mixed up with the cobbles around the house.

Draco’s garage, where he used to keep his treasured car, was open and empty. The carriage was missing too, and there was no water in the fountain.

Scorpius preceded her up the steps that led to the main entrance.

“What happened here?” asked Pansy in a whisper.

Scorpius didn’t reply, he pushed the door and kept it open for her as she walked in. Somehow, seeing the inside of the Manor was even more shocking than the outside.

Pansy remembered the expensive furniture and the beautiful carpets from India, the luxurious collections of plates exposed in the glass cabinets and the beautiful portraits of Draco’s ancestors on the walls. But there was nothing there.

The walls had no paintings, the floors had no carpets. There were few pieces of furniture, and they were all small, old and battered. And the Manor had never looked colder in Pansy’s memory.

When Scorpius closed the main door, the noise echoed through the whole Manor as if it had been completely empty.

“This way,” Scorpius told Pansy, walking past her and towards the drawing room. He pushed the door open for her and let her walk in.

The first thing Pansy saw was the figure of an old witch, sunk deep in the shadow of an old armchair. Pansy stepped towards the middle of the room, and the soft light coming from the fire lit the woman’s face.

The old witch looked at Pansy with ferocious grey eyes as she grabbed the armrests and straightened her fragile back until she looked like she was almost going to stand up. She didn’t though. “What is  _she_  doing here?” she asked in a hiss.

Scorpius walked to her. “Father asked to see her, Grandmother,” he replied gently.

“Narcissa,” Pansy greeted coldly. Evidently, the woman still didn’t like her after all that time.

“Your father asked to see her?” she asked Scorpius, but looked at Pansy. “As if she hadn’t done enough already.”

Pansy’s face hardened. “I didn’t do anything,” she let her know bitterly.

Narcissa’s fingers clutched the armrests. “You are the cause of all our misery,” she spat, “look around yourself, can’t you see?” She narrowed her eyes. “You did this to us.”

“Narcissa.”

Pansy turned to meet the eyes of an old and tired Astoria. She looked at her with an unreadable expression upon her face, and then shifted her eyes back to her mother-in-law. “That’s enough,” she told the old woman.

Narcissa growled softly. “That’s not enough,” she hissed, “if I hadn’t left my wand in my room I would have already hexed this girl’s head.”

“I’m not a girl,” Pansy felt the urge to point out.

Scorpius’ hands closed on Narcissa’s bony shoulders. “Grandmother,” he coaxed soothingly.

Narcissa’s face hardened. “Look at her,” she hissed, “looking so innocent, so pure, so sweet…” She laughed. “She invented a healing potion, she was awarded an Order of Merlin…” Her laughter became a fit of cough and when the cough died out her voice seemed even more venomous, “But I wonder if she told them what she truly is… She was my son’s slut, she was the one bearing his bastard, she is the cause of our ruin…”

Pansy felt rage boiling in her heart at those words. Then suddenly she remembered Lucius’ last letter a few years before. He had said that she had been right, and finally now she understood what he was talking about. She had only been eighteen at that time, but she had told him that one day their name wouldn’t be worth a thing and their Manor would crumble all around them, crushing them to death. And yes, she had been right.

“How am I the cause of your ruin?” she asked coldly.

Narcissa tried to stand up, but Scorpius kept her seated. The face of the young man was upset as if this was the first time he had ever heard of those things. “Look around yourself, you stupid girl,” she spluttered, “can’t you see?”

“I see that you had to sober up your lifestyle,” replied Pansy coldly.

Narcissa’s face screwed in anger. “All because of you!” she hissed. “The moment he stopped going to you, he had no peace.” She shook her head bitterly. “He spent all our money trying to fill in the void that you left him. Expensive hotels, cars, women… he wouldn’t stop until we had nothing left.” Narcissa looked at Pansy with hatred. “What did you do to him?” she hissed. “What incantation did you cast upon my son?”

Pansy swallowed. The words of the old woman were making her shiver. Had she really been the cause of the Malfoys’ ruin? She was rich now and they were penniless, the table had turned and yet, she couldn’t feel any power over them. “I didn’t do anything to him,” she replied sourly.

“Oh yes you did,” interjected Astoria calmly, and Pansy turned to look at her, “only you didn’t use magic.”

Pansy stared at her and found that she was at a loss of words. There was nothing that she could have replied to that. She had done something to Draco, but Draco had done something to her too, because even in those moments when she had lain with Blaise, she was always thinking about him.

“Scorpius,” called Astoria firmly, “bring your grandmother upstairs for her nap and check if your father is awake.”

Scorpius looked from his mother to Pansy as if to silently plead to stay and listen a little longer to their conversation. Pansy was sure the young man was finding it all very interesting. Interesting and scandalous.

“Now, Scorpius,” ordered Astoria when he didn’t move.

Pansy looked at him as he helped Narcissa to her feet and walked her out of the room. The old witch cast her one last glare before she disappeared out of the drawing room.

“You have to excuse Narcissa,” murmured Astoria flatly, “she doesn’t like being poor.”

Pansy nodded. She looked at Astoria and noticed that she couldn’t feel anything. She had expected her head to explode for all the hatred she would have felt the moment she looked at her, but it didn’t. She remembered perfectly well all the things the woman had done to her, and yet now nothing mattered.

“I’m confident Scorpius has explained what the situation is,” she continued, sitting on an armchair and gesturing for Pansy to sit opposite to her, on the only other seat there was now in the room.

Pansy nodded as she sat. “He is…” her words trailed away as she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Dying,” finished Astoria for her, her voice void of emotion. “Probably.” She looked at Pansy with hard eyes. “A certain Mr Dunn Apparated him home and asked me for the money to pay for Draco’s encounters with his prostitutes.” She looked away. “He said he would have finished him if I didn’t.”

Pansy nodded softly. Somehow, even if Astoria tried really hard to conceal it, she could hear the pain in her voice.

“And yet,” she added, bitterness in her voice now, “he asked to see you.”

Pansy didn’t reply. She had nothing to say to that.

Astoria stood up. “Come,” she told her, walking past Pansy, “I don’t know how much time you have.”

***

Pansy didn’t even see the people crowded in front of Draco’s door. She vaguely noticed that he had been put in his old room, and not in the one he had once told her that he shared with Astoria, but she didn’t make anything of it.

She swallowed as Scorpius opened the door for her, and she turned to look at Astoria, probably she was looking scared beyond recognition. Astoria only nodded softly, her face the usual mask void of all emotion. She turned and felt her heart increasing its beating, she felt it beating in her ears as it echoed in her head. She could feel as if her insides had been yanked from her stomach and she was now only an empty body. She felt her mouth becoming dry.

She walked in the room and the door closed at her back. She felt as if she was in a dream because her legs were heavy and her fingers and toes were numb. She stepped silently towards the bed, the heavy curtains were drawn around it. She heard a ragged panting coming from the mattress as she came closer.

Her hand was trembling as she pulled the curtain aside and she felt her temples pulsing when her eyes fell on Draco.

He was old. Old like her, only he looked older. His hairline had receded and his pale face was covered in sweat. His thin lips were almost white and his eyes were scrunched up in pain. He didn’t seem awake though, he seemed to be in a restless sleep.

He was covered up to his chest in heavy covers, but his naked arms lay at his sides. She could see the bandage where Scorpius had told her that he had been stabbed.

She sat on the bed next to him and let the curtain close again to shelter them. He didn’t open his eyes, and Pansy was grateful for that because warm tears started to form at the corner of her eyes. She hurriedly wiped them away before closing her eyes and taking a sharp breath.

She had to be strong. She couldn’t cry.

She opened her eyes and looked down at Draco. Her small, soft hand wormed its way on the mattress to touch his, and when she noticed that yet again he wasn’t stirring, she grabbed it and slid closer to him.

She stayed like that for what seemed ages, caressing delicately his fingers with her own and tracing circles on his hand until he let out a soft moan and she had to look up to his face to see if everything was alright.

Draco’s eyes opened slowly, as if he was too weak even to do that. He looked at Pansy for a brief moment, and she held her breath without even noticing. He closed them again and she felt his hand leaving her own. She looked as Draco opened his eyes again and looked at her. He raised his hand and brushed her cheek gently and almost reverentially.

“Are you a dream?” he asked her weakly. “Because I dreamt of you so many times…”

Pansy sucked in her breath at his words. She brought her hand to his and pushed it against her cheek, brushing softly against his skin. “I’m not a dream,” she whispered and almost startled at how broken her voice sounded.

Draco closed his eyes and his lips curled in a soft and tired smile. “You came,” he breathed.

Pansy tried to smile too. “You sent your handsome son,” she murmured, “I couldn’t have ignored him.”

Draco’s eyes opened again as he looked at her seriously. “He is handsome, isn’t he?” he asked, and even though it was not more than a whisper, she could feel the pride in his voice.

She nodded softly.

Draco coughed, but he didn’t withdraw his hand from her face. “He married a Weasley,” he told her when the cough had placated.

Pansy offered him a worried smile, for his cough rather than his words. “You didn’t teach him anything, Draco,” she whispered jokingly.

“No,” he replied as forcefully as he could, “no, I taught him everything.” He looked at Pansy with tired eyes. “I taught him he could love whoever he wanted.” He let his hand fall on the bed and stifled a moan of pain.

“Draco…” whispered Pansy, her hand going to his face in an affectionate gesture. She caressed his coarse cheek, feeling the stubble of his beard tickling her palm.

He slowly brought a hand over hers and he turned his face until her palm was over his dry lips. She kissed it once, then twice and three times, until Pansy felt shivers down her spine.

He moved it again and looked at her. “I should have married you, Pansy,” he confessed softly.

Pansy looked away and shook her head softly. “Draco, don’t…” she pleaded.

He didn’t listen to her. “I should have married you,” he repeated, “and we would have lived happily ever after.”

Pansy’s sight blurred with tears. “There’s no such thing as happily ever after, Draco,” she reminded him softly.

Draco swallowed, and Pansy could see how even that movement was difficult for him. “Pansy,” he whispered hoarsely, “I missed you…”

Pansy knew that he did, he always did, but for the first time, she felt the urge to let him know that she had felt just the same. “I missed you too, Draco…” she whispered back, and she was happy that his hand was no more on her cheek because warm tears were rolling down her face now. “I dreamt of you too, you know.”

He looked at her and raised his fingers to brush away her tears. “I love you, Pansy,” he told her.

“Draco…” she murmured, seizing his hand and kissing his tear-covered fingertips, “I know, you don’t have to say it…”

“No,” he replied forcefully, “let me talk. I  _need_  to say it.” He looked at her with resoluteness. “I love you, Pansy, I’ve always loved you, and I will always love you,” he whispered.

“I love you too,” she confessed frantically, before she could even understand that she had opened her mouth.

She felt her heart beating almost painfully in her chest. It hadn’t been the first time that someone had told her that he loved her. Blaise had done that so many times, but Pansy realised that this was the first time that Draco had said that to her, the first time those words meant something to her. And to her surprise, she understood that that was the first time that she had said it to him. Or to anybody at all.

He gritted his teeth and brought a hand to his stomach as a fit of pain hit him. Pansy looked at him impotently. She felt useless as he went through that pain. Only a spectator to his slow and agonising death.

When he opened his eyes again she could see them clouded with pain. “You are so beautiful,” he murmured.

She smiled as she stifled a sob. “Are you trying to bed me, Mr Malfoy?” she asked, trying to sound light-hearted.

Draco looked at her seriously. “If I could move I would have already done that,” he replied.

Pansy brushed the tears away from her face and bent over him. She felt his hand sneaking gently on her lap as she lowered her head to kiss him. His lips were dry and almost didn’t move as she gave him a few chaste kisses.

“You have to excuse me if I don’t remember how to use my lips,” he murmured against her, “for I haven’t kissed anybody ever since I last saw you.”

Pansy withdrew slightly. Her eyes big and filled with shame as she looked at him. She had kissed Blaise so many times that she had memorised his lips and the inside of his mouth. She felt ashamed and embarrassed, as if somehow she had cheated on Draco.

But Draco smiled at her as if he understood her troubles and forgave her. He opened his mouth to say something, but couldn’t because the pain seemed to be simply too intense and he had to bring his hands to his stomach as his body went rigid.

Pansy straightened her back as she helplessly looked at him. He coughed and whimpered in pain and his eyes closed while his lips parted to try to gulp down as much air as possible.

“Draco,” she called him anxiously, “Draco.”

She didn’t even notice when she put her hand in her pocket, but apparently she did because when she looked down at her palm she was clutching one of the phials of Nightshade Draught in her hand.

She uncorked it quickly and came closer to Draco. She waited for the cough to subdue again, before she brought a gentle hand behind his head to make him rise a little.

He let her bring the phial to his lips and dutifully drank the content in slow and pained gulps. When the phial was empty she pocketed it away and brought Draco’s head down.

“Is that your potion?” he asked in a whisper.

Pansy nodded softly. She could hear her tears falling on the bedspread now. “I…” she breathed, “I don’t know if it’s going to work.” She started to cry in earnest then, angry with herself for having created something that was so unstable and temperamental.

He smiled at her. “I already feel better,” he assured her, but he didn’t look any healthier than before.

She tried to wipe away her tears, but she felt Draco’s hands taking over the job and she let him.

“I’m not going to die,” he told her weakly, “not now that I found you again.”

But Pansy knew that he couldn’t have possibly known that.

He stretched his lips in a soft smile. “Will you wait with me?” he asked her in a whisper.

Pansy didn’t reply. Wait with him for what? His death or his healing? Either way she would have had her life turned upside-down. Either way everything would have been different.

She turned until she was giving him her back, and slowly and carefully she lay down next to him. He raised his arm on the bed and slid it over her shoulders. She rolled until she was on her side, her arm lightly resting on his chest, her elbow carefully raised from his stomach. She curled her legs until her knees bumped into his calves and he moved them slightly towards her.

His fingers closed on her shoulder and he pulled her weakly towards him. She strained her muscles trying to put as little weight on him as she could.

“I already feel better,” he murmured weakly, “with you here…” He took a sharp breath. “I love you so much,” he added in a pained whisper.

Pansy raised her head to kiss his cheek. “I love you too,” she murmured back.

His hand found Pansy’s on his chest and Draco intertwined his fingers with hers. He closed his eyes and slowly he fell asleep, his breath regular and soft as he did. 

Pansy closed her eyes too and held her breath.

She placed her hand on his heart, where she could feel it beat.

And she waited.

FIN


End file.
